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THE TENANT 



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WILDFELL HALL 


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BY ACTON BELL, 

AUTHOR OF “WDTHERING HEIGHTS.’ 




E W YORK: 

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
FRANKLIN SQUARE. 

1855 . 


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THE TENANT OF ¥ILDFELL HALL 


TO J. HALFORD, ESQ. 

Dear Halford, 

When we were together last, you gave me a very particu- 
lar and interesting account of the most remarkable occur- 
rences of your early life, preyious to our acquaintance ; and 
then you requested a return of confidence from me. Not being 
in a story-telling humor at the time, I declined, under the plea 
of having nothing to tell, and the like shuffling excuses, which 
were regarded as wholly inadmissible by you; for though you 
instantly turned the conversation, it was with the air of an un- 
complaining, but deeply injured man, and your face was over- 
shadowed with a cloud which darkened it to the end of our 
interview, and for what I know, darkens it still ; for your letters 
have ever since been distinguished by a certain dignified, semi- 
.nelancholy stiffness and reseiTe, that would have been very 
affecting, if my conscience had accused me of deserving it. 

Are you not ashamed, old boy — at your age, and when we 
have known each other so intimately and so long, and when I 
have already given you so many proofs of frankness and confi- 
dence, and never resented your comparative closeness and taci- 
turnity'! But there it is, I suppose; you are not naturally 
communicative, and you thought you had done great things, and 
given an unparalleled proof of friendly confidence on that mem- 
orable occasion^ — which, doubtless, you have sworn shall be the 
last of the kind — and you deemed that the smallest return I 
could make for so mighty a favor, would be to follow your ex- 
ample without a moment’s hesitation. 

Well ! I did not take up my pen to reproach you, nor to 
defend myself, nor to apologize for past offenses, but, if possible, 
to atone for them. 

It is a soaking, rainy day, the family are absent on a visit, I 
am alone in my library, and have been looking over certain 
musty old letters and papers, and musing on past times; so 


6 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


that I am now in a very proper frame of mind for amusing you 
with an old world story; and, having withdrawn my well- 
roasted feet from the hobs, wheeled round to the table, and in- 
dited the above lines to my crusty old friend, I am about to give 
him a sketch — no not a sketch — a full and faithful account of 
certain circumstances connected with the most important event 
of my life — previous to my acquaintance with Jack Halford, at 
least ; and when you have read it, charge me with ingratitude 
and unfriendly reserve if you can. 

I know you like a long stoiy, and are as great a stickler for ^ 
particularities and circumstantial details as my grandmothei', so 
I will not spare you : my own patience and leisure shall be my 
only limits. 

Among the letters and papers I spoke of, there is a certain 
faded old journal of mine, which I mention by way of assurance 
that I have not my memory alone — tenacious as it is — to depend 
upon; in order that your credulity may not be too severely 
taxed in following me through the minute details of my narra- 
tive. To begin then, at once, with chapter first — for it shall be 
a tale of many chapters. 


CHAPTER I. 

A DISCOVERY. 

You must go back with me to the autumn of 1827. 

My father, as you know, was a sort of gentleman farmer in 

shire ; and I, by his express desire, succeeded him in the 

same quiet occupation, not very willingly, for ambition urged 
me to higher aims, and self-conceit assured me that, in disre- 
garding its voice, I was burying my talent in the earth, and 
hiding my light under a bushel. My mother had done her ut- 
most to persuade me that I was capable of great achievements ; 
but my father who thought ambition was the surest road to ruin, 
and change but another word for destruction, would listen to 
no scheme for bettering either my own condition, or that of my 
fellow mortals. He assured me it was all rubbish, and exhorted 
me with his dying breath, to continue in the good old way, to 
follow his steps, and those of his father before him, and let my 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


7 


highest ambition be, to walk honestly through the world, look- 
ing neither to the right hand nor to the left, and to transmit the 
paternal acres to my children in, at least,^ as flourishing a con- 
dition as he left them to me. 

“ Well ! an honest and industrious farmer is one of the most 
useful members of society; and if I devote my talents to the 
cultivation of my farm, and the improvement of agriculture in 
general, I shall thereby benefit, not only my own immediate 
connections and dependents, but in some degree, mankind at 
large : hence I shall not have lived in vain.” 

With such reflections as these, I was endeavoring to console 
myself, as I plodded home from the fields, one cold, damp, 
cloudy evening toward the close of October. But the gleam of 
a bright red fire through the parlor window, had more effect in 
cheering my spirits, and rebuking my thankless repiiiings, than 
all the sage reflections and good resolutions I had forced my 
mind to frame; for I was young then, remember — only four- 
and-twenty — and had not acquired half the rule over my own 
spirit, that I now possess — trifling as that may be. 

However, that haven of bliss must not be entered till I had 
exchanged my miry boots, for a clean pair of shoes, and my 
rough surtout for a respectable coat, and made myself generally 
presentable before decent society ; for my mother, with all her 
kindness, was vastly particular on certain points. 

In ascending to my room, I was met upon the stairs by a smart, 
pretty girl of nineteen, with a tidy, dumpy figure, a round face, 
bright, blooming cheeks, glossy, clustering curls, and little merry 
brown eyes. I need not tell you this was my sister Rose. She 
is, I know, a comely matron still, and, doubtless, no less lovely 
— in your eyes — than on the happy day you first beheld her. 
Nothing told me then, that she, a few years hence, would be the 
wife of one — entirely unknown to me as yet, but destined, here- 
after, to become a closer friend than even herself, more intimate 
than that unmannerly lad of seventeen, by whom I was collared 
in the passage, on coming down, and well nigh jerked off my 
equilibrium, and who, in correction for his impudence, received 
a resounding whack over the sconce, which, however, sustained 
no serious injury from the infliction ; as besides being more than 
commonly thick, it was protected by a redundant shock of short, 
reddish curls, that ray mother called auburn. 

On entering the parlor, we found that honored lady seated in 
her arm chair at the fire side, working away at her knitting, 


8 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


according to her usual custom, when she had nothing else to do. 
She had swept the hearth, and made a bright blazing fire for 
our reception; the servant had just brought in the tea-tray; 
and Rose was producing the sugar-basin and tea-caddy, from the 
cupboard in the black, oak sideboard, that shone like polished 
ebony, in the cheerful parlor twilight. 

“ Well ! here they both are,” cried my mother, looking round 
upon us, without retarding the motion of her nimble fingers and 
glittering needles. “Now shut the door, and come to the fi»'e, 
while Rose gets the tea ready ; I’m sure you must be starved ; 
and tell me what you’ve been about all day; I like to know 
what my children have been about.” 

“ I’ve been breaking in the gray colt — no easy business that 
— directing the ploughing of the last wheat stubble — for the 
ploughboy has not the sense to direct himself — and candying out 
a plan for the extensive and efficient draining of the low mead- 
ow lands.” 

“ That’s my brave boy! And Fergus, what have you been 
doing 1” 

“ Badger-baiting.” 

And here he proceeded to give a particular account of his 
sport, and the respective traits of prowess evinced by the badger 
and the dogs ; my mother pretending to listen with deep atten- 
tion, and watching his animated countenance with a degree of 
maternal admiration I thought highly disproportioned to its 
object. . 

“ It’s time you should be doing something else, Fergus,” said 
I, as soon as a momentary pause in his narration allowed me to 
get in a word. 

“ What can I do I” replied he, “ my mother won’t let me go 
to sea or enter the army; and I’m determined to do nothing 
else — except make myself such a nuisance to you all, that you 
will be thankful to get rid of me on any terms.” 

Our parent soothingly stroked his stiff, short curls. He 
gi’owled, and tried to look sulky, and then we all took our seats at 
the table, in obedience to the thrice repeated summons of Rose. 

“ Now take your tea,” said she ; “ and I’ll tell you what Tve 
been doing. I’ve been to call on the Wilsons ; and it’s a thou- 
sand pities you did’nt go with me, Gilbert, for Eliza Millward 
was there !” 

“Well! what of her 

“ Oh, nothing ! I’m not going to tell you about her ; only that 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


9 


she’s a nice, amusing little thing, when she is in a meri'y humor, 
and I shouldn’t mind calling her ” 

“ Hush, hush, my dear ! your brother has no such idea,” 
whispered my mother earnestly, holding up her finger. 

“ Well,” resumed Rose ; “ I was going to tell you an impor- 
tant piece of news I heard there — I’ve been bursting with it 
ever since. You know it was reported a month ago, that some- 
body was going to take Wildfell Hall — and — what do you think! 
It has actually been inhabited above a week! and we never 
knew !” 

“ Impossible 1” cried my mother. 

“ Preposterous 111” shrieked Fergus. 

“ It has, indeed ; and by a single lady 1” 

“Good gi-acious, my dear 1 The place is in ruins.” 

“ She has had two or three rooms made habitable ; and theie 
she lives, all alone — except an old woman for a servant.” 

“ Oh dear 1 that spoils it ; I’d hoped she was a witch,” observed 
Fergus, while carving his inch-thick slice of bread and butter. 

“ Nonsense, Fergus 1 But isn’t it strange, mamma!” 

“ Strange 1 I can hardly believe it.” 

“But you may believe it; for Jane Wilson has seen her. 
She went with her mother, who, of course, when she heard of a 
stranger being in the neighborhood, would be on pins and 
needles till she had seen her and got all she could out of her. 
She is called Mrs. Graham, and she is in mouming — not widow’s 
weeds, but slightish mourning — and she is quite young, they 
say — not above five or six and twenty — but so reserved 1 
They tried all they could to find out who she was, and where 
she came from, and all about her, but neither Mrs. Wilson, with 
her pertinacious and impertinent home thrusts, nor Miss Wilson, 
with her skillful manoeuvring, could manage to elicit a single 
satisfactory answer, or even a casual remark, or chance expres- 
sion calculated to allay their curiosity, or throw the faintest ray 
of light upon her history, circumstances, or connections. More- 
over, she was barely civil to them, and evidently better pleased 
to say ‘ good by,’ than ‘how do you do.’ But Eliza Mill ward 
says her father intends to call upon her soon, to offer some pas- 
toral advice, which he fears she needs, as, though she is known 
to have entered the neighborhood early last week, she did not 
make her appearance at church on Sunday; and she — Eliza, 
that is — will beg to accompany him, and is sure she can succeed 
in wheedling something out of her — you know, Gilbert, she can 


10 


THE TENANT OP WILDFELL HALL. 


do any thing. And we should call sometime, mamma ; it’s only 
proper, you know.” 

“ Of course, my dear. Poor thing ! how lonely she must 
feel !” 

“ And pray, be quick about it ; and mind you bring me word 
how much sugar she puts in her tea, and what sort of caps and 
aprons she wears, and all about it ; for I don’t know how I can 
live till I know,” said Fergus, very gravely. 

But if he intended the speech to be hailed as a master-stroke 
of wit, he signally failed, for nobody laughed. However, he 
was not much disconcerted at that ; for when he had taken a 
mouthful of bread and butter, and was about to swallow a gulp 
of tea, the humor of the thing burst upon him with such irre- 
sistible force, that he was obliged to jump up from the table, 
and rush snorting and choking from the room ; and a minute 
after, was heard screaming in fearful agony in the garden. 

As for me, I was hungry, and contented myself with silently 
demolishing the tea, ham, and toast, while my mother and sister 
went on talking, and continued to discuss the apparent, or non- 
apparent circumstances, and probable or improbable history of 
the mysterious lady ; but I must confess that, after my brother’s 
misadventure, I once or twice, raised the cup to my lips, and 
put it down again without daring to taste the contents, lest J 
should injure my dignity by a similar explosion. 

The next day, my mother and Rose hastened to pay their 
compliments to the fair recluse ; and came back but little wiser 
than they went ; though my mother declared she did not regret 
the journey, for if she had not gained much good, she flattered 
herself she had imparted some, and that was better : she had 
given some useful advice, which she hoped, would not be thrown 
away ; for Mrs. Graham, though she said little to any purpose, 
and appeared somewhat self-opinionated, seemed not incapable 
of reflection — though she did not know where she had been all 
her life, poor thing, for she betrayed a lamentable ignorance on 
certain points, and had not even the sense to be ashamed of it. 

“ On what points, mother I” asked I. 

“ On household matters, and all the little niceties of cookery, 
and such things, that every lady ought to be familiar with, whe- 
ther she be required to make a practical use of her knowledge 
or not. I gave her some useful species of information, however, 
and several excellent receipts, the value of which, she evidently 
could not appreciate, for she begged I would not trouble ray- 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


11 


self, as she lived in such a plain, quiet ^vay, that she was sure 
she should never make use of them. ‘ No matter, my dear,’ 
said I ; ‘ it is what every respectable female ought to know ; — 
and besides, though you are alone now, you will not be always 
so ; you have been married, and probably — I might say almost 
certainly — will be again.’ ‘ You are mistaken there ma’am,’ 
said she, almost haughtily ; ‘ I am certain I never shall.’ But I 
told her I knew better.” 

“ Some romantic young widow, I suppose,” said I, “ come 
there to end her days in solitude, and mourn in secret for the 
dear departed — but it won’t last long.” 

“No, I think not,” observed Rose; “for she didn’t seeml 
very disconsolate, after all ; and she’s excessively pretty — hand- 1 
some rather — you must see her Gilbert; you will call her a 
perfect beauty, though you could hardly pretend to discover a 
resemblance between her and Eliza Mill ward.” 

“ Well, I can imagine many faces more beautiful than Eliza’s, 
though not more charming. I allow she has small claims to 
peifection ; but then, I maintain that, if she were more perfect, 
she would be less interesting.” 

“And so you prefer her faults to other people’s perfections?” 

“ Just so — saving my mother’s presence.” 

“ Oh, my dear Gilbert, what nonsense you talk ! I know 
you don’t mean it; it’s quite out of the question,” said my 
mother, getting up, and bustling out of the room, under pre- 
tense of household business, in order to escape the contradic- 
tion that was trembling on my tongue. 

After that. Rose favored me with further particulars respect- 
ing Mrs. Graham. Her appearance, manners, and dress, and 
the very furniture of the room she inhabited, were all set before 
me, with rather more clearness and precision than I cared to see 
them ; but, as I was not a very attentive listener, I could not 
repeat the description if I would. 

The next day was Saturday ; and, on Sunday, every body 
wondered whether or not the fair unknown would profit by the 
vicar’s remonstrance, and come to church. I confess, I looked 
with some interest myself toward the old family pew, appertain- 
ing to Wildfell Hall, where the faded crimson cushions and 
lining had been unpressed and unrenewed so many years, and 
the grim escutcheons, with their lugubrious borders of rusty 
black cloth, frowned so sternly from the wall above. 

And there I beheld a tall, lady-like figure, clad in black. 


12 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


Her face was toward me, and there was something in it, which, 
once seen, invited me to look again. Her hair was raven black, 
and disposed in long, glossy ringlets, a style of coiffure, rather 
unusual in those days, but always graceful and becoming ; her 
complexion was clear and pale ; her eyes I could not see, for 
being bent upon her prayer-book they were concealed by their 
drooping lids and long, black lashes, but the brows above were 
expressive and well-defined, the forehead was lofty and intel- 
lectual, the nose a peifect aquiline, and the features, in general, 
/Unexceptionable — only there was a slight hollowness about the 
cheeks and eyes, and the lips, though finely formed, were a little 
too thin, a little too firmly compressed, and had something about 
them that betokened, I thought, no very soft or amiable temper; 
and I said in my heart — 

“ I would rather admire you from this distance, fair lady, than 
be the partner of your home.” 

Just then, she happened to raise her eyes, and they met mine, 
I did not choose to withdraw my gaze, and she turned again to 
her book, but with a momentary, indefinable expression of quiet 
scorn, that was inexpressibly provoking to me. 

“ She thinks me an impudent, puppy,” thought I. “ Humph ! — 
she shall change her mind before long, if I think it worth while.” 

But then, it flashed upon me that these were very improper 
thoughts for a place of worship, and that my behavior, on the 
present occasion, was any thing but what it ought to be. 
Previous, however, to directing my mind to the service, I 
glanced round the church to see if any one had been observing me ; 
but no — all who were not attending to their prayer-books, were 
attending to the strange lady — my good mother and sister among 
the rest, and Mrs. Wilson and her daughter ; and even Eliza 
Millward was slyly glancing from the comers of her eyes to- 
ward the object of general attraction. Then, she glanced at me, 
simpered a little, and blushed — modestly looked at her prayer- 
book, and endeavored to compose her features. 

Here I was transgressing again ; and this time I was made 
sensible of it by a sudden dig in the ribs, from the elbow of my 
pert brother. F or the present, I could only resent the insult by 
pressing my foot upon his toes, deferring further vengeance till 
we got out of church. 

Now, Halford, before I close this letter. I’ll tell you who 
Eliza Millward was. She was the vicar’s younger daughter, and 
a very engaging little creature, for whom I felt no small degree 


THE TENANT OF VVILDFELL HALL. 


13 


of partiality — and she knew it, though I had never come to any 
direct explanation, and had no definite intention of so doing, for 
ray mother, who maintained there was no one good enough for 
me, within twenty miles round, could not bear the thoughts of 
my marrying that insignificant, little thing, who, in addition to 
her numerous other disqualifications, had not twenty pounds to 
call her own. Eliza’s figure was at once slight and plump, her 
face small, and nearly as round as my sister’s — complexion, 
something similar to hers, but more delicate and less decidedly 
blooming — nose, retrousse — features, generally irregular; and, 
altogether, she was rather charming than pretty. But her eyes — I 
must not forget those remarkable features, for therein her chief 
attraction lay — in outward aspect at least ; they were long and 
narrow in shape, irids black, or very dark brown, the expression 
various, and ever changing, but always either pretematurally — 
I had almost said diaholically — wicked, or irresistibly bewitch- 
ing — often both. Her voice was gentle and childish, her tread 
light and soft as that of a cat ; but her manners more frequent- 
ly resembled these of a pretty, playful kitten, that is now pert 
and roguish, now timid and demure, according to its own sweet 
will. 

Her sister, Mary, was several years older, several inches 
taller, and of a larger, coarser build — a plain, quiet, sensible 
girl, who had patiently nursed their mother, through her last 
long, tedious illness, and been the housekeeper and family 
drudge, from thence to the present time. She was trusted and 
valued by her father, loved and courted by all dogs, cats, chil- 
dren, and poor people, and slighted and neglected by every 
body else. 

The Reverend Michael Millward, himself, was a tall, pon- 
derous, elderly gentleman, who placed a shovel hat above his 
large, square, massive-featured face, earned a stout walking- 
stick in his hand, and incased his still powerful limbs in knee- 
breeches and gaiters — or black silk stockings on state occasions. 
He was a man of fixed principles, strong prejudices, and regu- 
lar habits — intolerant of dissent in any shape, acting under a 
firm conviction that his opinions were always right, and who- 
ever differed from them, must be, either most deplorably 
ignorant, or willfully blind. 

In childhood, I had always been accustomed to regard him 
with a feeling of reverential awe — but lately, even now, sur- 
mounted ; for, though he had a fatherly kindness for the well- 


14 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


behaved, he was a strict disciplinarian, and had often sternly 
reproved our juvenile failings and peccadillos; and, moreover, 
in those days whenever he called upon our parents, we had to 
stand up before him, and say our catechism, or repeat “ How 
doth the little busy bee,” or some other hymn, or — worse than 
all — be questioned about his last text and the heads of the dis- 
course, which we never could remember. Sometimes, the wor- 
thy gentleman would reprove my mother for being over in- 
dulgent to her sons, with a reference to old Eli, or David and 
Absalom, which was particularly galling to her feelings ; and, 
very highly as she respected him, and all his sayings, I once 
heard her exclaim, “ I wish to- goodness he had a son himself! 
He wouldn’t be so ready with his advice to other people then ; 
he’d see what it is to have a couple of boys to keep in order.” 

He had a laudable care for his own bodily health; kept very 
early hours, regularly took a walk before breakfast, was vastly 
particular about warm and dry clothing, had never been known 
to preach a sermon without previously swallowing a raw egg — 
albeit, he was gifted with good lungs and a powerful voice — 
and was, generally, extremely particular about what he ate 
and drank, though by no means abstemious, and having a mode 
of dietary peculiar to himself — being a great despiser of tea 
and such slops, and a patron of malt liquors, bacon and eggs, 
ham, hung beef, and other strong meats, which agreed well 
enough with his digestive organs, and therefore were main- 
tained by him to be good and wholesome for every body, and 
confidently recommended to the most delicate convalescents or 
dyspeptics, who, if they failed to derive the promised benefit 
from his presciiptions, were told it was because they had not 
persevered ; and if they complained . of inconvenient results 
therefrom, were assured it was all fancy. 

I will^ just touch upon two other persons whom I have men- 
tioned, and then bring this long letter to a close. These are 
Mrs. Wilson and her daughter. The former was the widow 
of a substantial farmer, a narrow-minded, tattling old gossip, 
whose character is not worth describing. She had two sons, 
Robert, a rough countrified farmer, and Richard, a retiring, 
studious young man, who was studying the classics with the 
vicar’s assistance, preparing foi college, with a view to enter 
the church. 

Their sister Jane was a young lady of some talents and 
more ambition. She had, at her own desire, received a regu- 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


15 


lar boarding-school education, superior to what any member of 
the family had obtained before. She had taken the polish 
well, acquired considerable elegance of manners, quite lost 
her provincial accent, and could boast of more accomplishments 
than the vicar’s daughters. She was considered a beauty 
besides ; but never for a moment could she number me among 
her admirers. She was about six and twenty, rather tall, and 
very slender, her hair was neither chestnut nor auburn, but a 
most decided, bright, light red, her complexion was remark- 
ably fair and brilliant, her head small, neck long, chin well 
turned, but very short, lips thin and red, eyes clear hazel, 
quick and penetrating, but entirely destitute of poetry or feel- 
ing. She had, or might have had many suitors in her own 
rank of life, but scornfully repulsed or rejected them all; for 
none but a gentleman could please her refined taste, and none 
but a rich one could satisfy her soaring ambition. One gentle- 
man there was, from whom she had lately received some rather 
pointed attentions, and upon whose heart, name, and fortune, it 
was whispered, she had serious designs. This was Mr. Law- 
rence, the young squire, whose family had formerly occupied 
Wildfell Hall, but had deserted it, some fifteen years ago, for 
a more modern and commodious mansion in the neighboring 

, Halford, I bid you adieu for the present. This is the 
first installment of my debt. If the coin suits you, tell me so, 
and I’ll send you the rest at my leisure : if you would rather 
remain my creditor, than stuff your purse with such ungainly 
heavy pieces — tell me still, and I’ll pardon your bad taste, and 
willingly keep the treasure to myself. 

Yours immutably. 

Gilbert Markham. 


parish. 

Now 


CHAPTER II. 

AN interview. 

I PERCEIVE, with joy, my most valued friend, that the cloud of 
your displeasure has passed away ; the light of your countenance 
blesses me once more, and you desire the continuation of my 
story : therefore, without more ado, you shall have it. 

I think the day I last mentioned, was g, certain Sunday, the 


16 


THl TENANT OF WILDPELL HALL. 


latest in the Octv-r-er of 1827. On the following Tuesday I was 
out with my dog and gun in pursuit of such game as I could find 
within the territory of Linden-Car ; but finding none at all, I 
turned my arms against the hawks and carrion crows, whose 
depredations, as I suspected, had deprived me of better prey. 
To this end, I left the more frequented regions, the wooded val- 
leys, the cornfields, and the meadow lands, and proceeded to 
mount the steep acclivity ofWildfell, the wildest and the loftiest 
eminence in our neighborhood, where, as you ascend, the hedges, 
as well as the trees, become scanty and stunted, the former, at 
length, giving place to rough stone fences, partly greened over 
with ivy and moss, the latter to larches and. Scotcn fir-trees, or 
isolated black thorns. The fields, being rough and stony, and 
wholly unfit for the plough, were mostly devoted to the pastur- 
ing of sheep and cattle; the soil was thin and poor: bits of gray 
rock here and there peeped out from the grassy hillocks ; bilber- 
ry plants and heather — relics of more savage wildness — grew 
under the walls ; and in many of the inclosures, ragweeds and 
rushes usurped supremacy over the scanty herbage : but these 
were not my property. 

Near the top of this hill, about two miles from Linden-Car, 
stood Wildfell Hall, a superannuated mansion of the Elizabeth- 
an era, built of dark gray stone — ^venerable and picturesque to 
look at, but, doubtless, cold and gloomy enough to inhabit, with its 
thick stone mullions and little latticed panes, its time-eaten air- 
holes, and its too lonely, too unsheltered situation, only shielded 
fi'om the war of wind and weather by a gi'oup of Scotch firs, 
themselves half blighted with storms, and looking as stem and 
gloomy as the Hall itself. Behind it lay a few desolate fields, 
and then, the brown heath-clad summit of the hill ; before it 
(inclosed by stone walls, and entered by an iron gate with large 
balls of gray gi'anite, similar to those which decorated the roof 
and gables, surmounting the gate-posts), was a garden, once, 
stocked with such hardy plants and flowers as could best brook 
the soil and climate, and such trees and shrubs as could best 
endure the gardener’s torturing shears, and most readily assume 
the shapes he chose to give them, now, having been left so 
many years, untilled and untrimmed, abandoned to the weeds 
and the grass, to the frost and the wind, the rain and the drought, 
it presented a very singular appearance indeed. The close 
green walls of privet, that had bordered the principal walk, 
were two-thirds withered away, and the rest gi’own beyond all 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


17 


reasonable bounds ; the old boxwood swan, that sat beside the 
scraper, had lost its neck and half its body ; the castellated 
towers of laurel in the middle of the garden, the gigantic war- 
rior that stood on one side of the gateway, and the lion that 
guarded the other, were sprouted into such fantastic shapes as 
resembled nothing either in heaven or earth, or in the waters 
under the earth ; but, to my young imagination, they presented 
all of them a goblinish appearance, that harmonized well with 
the ghostly legends and dark traditions our old nurse had told 
us respecting the haunted hall and its departed occupants. 

I had succeeded in killing a hawk and two crows when I 
came within sight of the mansion ; and then, relinquishing fur- 
ther depredations, I sauntered on, to have a look at the old 
place, and see what changes had been wrought in it by i^s new 
inhabitant. I did not like to go quite to the front and stare in 
at the gate ; but«I paused beside the garden wall, and looked, 
and saw no change — except in one wing, where the broken win- 
dows and dilapidated roof had evidently been r'^oaired, and 
where a thin wreath of smoke was curling up from stack of 
chimneys. 

While I thus stood i* aninc'' on my gun, and looking up at the 
dark gables, sunk in aa idle reverie, weaving a tissue of way- 
ward fancies, in which old associations and the fair young her- 
mit, now within those walls, bore a nearly equal part, I heard a 
slight rustling and scrambling just within the garden ; and, 
glancing in the direction whence the sound proceeded, I beheld 
a tiny hand elevated above the wall : it clung to the topmost 
stone, and then another li».tle hand was raised to take a firmer 
hold, and then appeared a mall white forehead, surmounted 
wdth wreaths of light brown i air, with a pair of deep blue eyes 
beneath, and the upper portion of a diminutive ivory nose. 

The eyes did not notice me, but sparkled with glee on behold- 
ing Sancho, my beautiful l-lack and white setter, that was coupl- 
ing about the field with auzzle to the ground. The little 
creature raised its face and c . lied aloud to the dog. The good- 
natured animal paused, k* :ed up, and wagged his tail, but 
made no further advances, The child (a little boy, apparently 
about five years old), scrambled up to the top of the wall and 
called again and again ,* but finding this of no avail, apparently 
made up his mind, like Mahomet, to go to the mountain, since 
the mountain would not come to him, and attempted to get over; 
but a crabbed old cherry-tree, that grew hard by, caught him by 


18 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


the frock in one of its crooked, scraggy arms that stretched over 
the wall. In attempting to disengage himself, his foot slipped, 
and down he tumbled — but not to the earth — the tree still kept 
him suspended. There was a silent struggle, and then a pierc- 
ing shriek ; but, in an instant, I had dropped my gun on the 
grass, and caught the little fellow in my arms. 

I wiped his eyes with his frock, told him he was all right, 
and called Sancho to pacify him. He was just putting his little 
hand on the dog’s neck, and beginning to smile through his 
tears, when I heard behind me a click of the iron gate and a 
rustle of female garments, and lo ! Mrs. Graham darted upon 
me — her neck uncovered, her black locks streaming in the wind. 

“ Give me the child ! — ” 

She said in a voice scarce louder than a whisper, but with a 
tone of startling vehemence, and seizing the boy, she snatched 
him from me, as if some dire contamination were in my touch, 
and then stood with one hand firmly clasping his, the other on 
his shoulder, fixing upon me her large, luminous, dark eyes — 
pale, breathless, quivering with agitation. 

“ I was not harming the child, madam,” said I, scarce know- 
ing whether to be most astonished or displeased, “ he was tum- 
bling off the wall there ; and I was so fortunate as to catch him, 
while he hung suspended headlong from that tree, and prevent 
I know not what catastrophe.” 

I beg your pardon, sir,” stammered she ; suddenly calming 
down, the light of reason seeming to break upon her beclouded 
spirit, and a faint blush mantling on her cheek — “ I did not know 
you ; and I thought — ” 

She stooped to kiss the child, and fondly clasped her arm 
round his neck. 

“ You thought I was going to kidnap your son, I suppose 

She stroked his head with a half-embarrassed laugh, and 
replied — 

“ I did not know he had attempted to climb the wall. I have 
the pleasure of addressing Mr. Markham, I believe ]” she added 
somewhat abruptly. 

I bowed, but ventured to ask how she knew me. 

“ Your sister called here a few days ago, with Mrs. Markham.” 

“ Is the resemblance so strong, then ]” I asked in some sur- 
piise, and not so greatly flattered at the idea as I ought to have 
been. 

“ There is a likeness about the eyes and complexion, I think,” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


19 


replied she, somewhat dubiously surveying my face ; ‘^nand I 
think I saw you at church on Sunday.” 

I smiled. There was something either in that^ smile or the 
recollections it awakened that was particularly displeasing to 
her, for she suddenly assumed again that proud, chilly look 
that had so unspeakably roused my corruption at church — a 
look of repellent scorn, so easily assumed, and so entirely with- 
out the least distortion of a single feature that, while there, it 
seemed like the natural expression of the face, and was the 
more provoking to me, because I could not think it affected. 

“ Good morning, Mr. Markham,” said she ; and without 
another word or glance, she withdrew with her child into the 
garden ; and I retunied home, angry and dissatisfied — I could 
scarcely tell you why, and therefore will not attempt it. 

I only stuT M to put away my gun and powder-horn, and 
give some recuisite directions to one of the farming-men, and 
then repaired t^ the vicarage, to solace my spirit and sooth my 
ruffled tempei with the company and conversation of Eliza 
Mill ward. 

I found her, as "sr 2 l, busy vvlui soo-t; j . ;e of soi embroidery 
(the mania for T ■];-< vo- .3 had yet commenced), while her 
sister was f;v;.a'.ed a- tne chimney-corner, with the cat on her 
knee, mending a hec^ j of stockings. 

“ Mary — Mary ! put them away !” Eliza was hastily saying 
just as I Uitered the room.* 

“ Not j, 'Udeed !” was the phlegmatic reply ; and my appear- 
ance pre\'f ted further discussion. 

“ You’re unfortunat3, Mr. Markham,” observ^ed the younger 
sister, with one of her arch, sidelong glances. “ Papa’s just 
gone out ' .0 the parish, and not likely to be back for an hour.” 

“ Nevei mind ; I can manage to spend a few minutes with 
his daughters, if they 11 allow me ” ^ d I, bringing a chair to 
the fire, and seating myself therem, "w nout waiting to be asked. 

“ Well, if you’ll be very good and a using, we shan’t object.” 

“ Let your permission be unconditional, pray ; for I came 
not to give pleasure, but to seek it,” I answered. 

However, I thought it but reasonable to make some slight 
exertion tu render my company agreeable ; and what little 
effort I mr was apparently pretty successful, for Miss Eliza 
was nevet m a better humor. We seemed, indeed, to bo 
mutually j eased with each other, and managed to maintain 
between u; ' cheerful and animated, though not very profound 


20 


THE TENANT OF WILEFELL HALL. 


conversation. It was little better than a tete-a-tete, for Miss 
Millward never opened her lips, except occasionally to correct 
some random assertion or exaggerated expression of her sister’s, 
and once to ask her to pick up the ball of cotton, that had rolled 
under the table. I did this myself, however, as in duty bound. 

“ Thank you, Mr. Markham,” said she, as I presented it to 
her. “ I would have picked it up myself, only I did not want 
to disturb the cat.” 

“ Mary, dear, that won’t excuse you in Mr. Markham’s eyes,” 
said Eliza ; “ he hates cats, I dare say, as cordially as he does 
old maids, like all other gentlemen. Don’t you, Mr. Markham 1” 

“ I believe it is natural for our unamiable sex to dislike the 
creatures,” replied I ; “ for you ladies lavish so many caresses 
upon them. 

“ Bless them — ^little darlings !” cried she, in a sudden burst of 
enthusiasm, turning round and overwhelming her sister’s pet 
with a shower of kisses. 

“ Don’t Eliza !” said Miss Millward, somewhat gruffly, as she 
impatiently pushed her away. 

But it was time for me to be going : make what haste I would, 
I should still be too late for tea; and my mother was the soul of 
order and punctuality. 

My fair friend was evidently unwilling to bid me adieu. T 
tenderly squeezed her little hand at parting ; and she repaid me 
.^with one of her softest smiles and fnost bewitching glances. I 
went home very happy, with a heart brimful of complacency for 
myself, and oveiflowing with love for Eliza. 


CHAPTER III. 

A CONTROVERSY. 

Two days after, Mrs.' Graham called at Linden-Car, contrary 
to the expectation of Rose, who entertained an idea that the 
mysterious occupant of Wildfell Hall would wholly disregard 
the common observances of civilized life — in which opinion she 
was supported^ by the Wilsons, who testified that neither their 
call nor the Millwards’ had been returned as yet. Now, how- 
ever, the cause of that omission was explained, though not en- 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


21 


tirely to the satisfaction of Rose. Mrs. Graham had brought 
her child with her, and on my mother’s expressing surprise that 
he could walk so far, she replied — 

“ It is a long walk for him ; but I must have either taken him 
with me, or relinquished the visit altogether : for I never leave 
him alone ; and I think, Mrs. Markham, I must beg you to 
make my excuses to the Millwards and Mrs. Wilson, when you 
see them, as I fear I can not do myself the pleasure of calling 
upon them till my little Arthur is able to accompany me.” 

“ But you have a servant,” said Rose ; “ could you not leave 
him with her 1” 

“ She has her own occupations to attend to ; and besides, she 
is too old to run after a child, and he is too mercurial to be tied 
to an elderly woman.” 

But you left him to come to church.” 

“ Yes, once ; but I would not have left him for any other 
purpose ; and I think, in future, I must contrive to bring him 
with me, or stay at home.” 

“ Is he so mischievous ]” asked my mother, considerably 
shocked. 

“ No,” replied the lady, sadly smiling, as she stroked the wavy 
locks of her son, who was seated on a low stool at her feet, “ but 
he is my only treasure ; and I am his only friend, so we don’t 
like to be separated.” 

“ But my dear, I call that doting,” said my plain-spoken 
parent. “ You should tiy to suppress such foolish fondness, as 
well to save your son from ruin as yourself from ridicule.” 

“ Ruin, Mrs. Markham 

“ Yes ; it is spoiling the child. Even at 7iis age, he ought not 
to bo always tied to his mother’s apron string ; he should learn 
to be ashamed of it.” 

“ Mrs. Markham, I beg you will not say such things in his 
presence, at least. I ti'ust my son will never be ashamed to love 
his mother!” said Mrs. Graham, with a serious energy that 
startled the company. 

My mother attempted to appease her by an explanation ; but 
she seemed to think enough had been said on the subject, and 
abruptly turned the conversation. 

“ Just as I thought,” said I to myself : the lady’s temper is 
none of the mildest, notwithstanding her sweet, pale face and 
lofty brow, where thought and suffering seem equally to have 
stamped their impress.” 


22 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


All this time, I was seated at a table on the other side of the 
loom, apparently immersed in the perusal of a volume of the 
Farmer’s Magazine, which I happened to have been reading at 
the moment of our visitor’s arrival ; and, not choosing to be 
over civil, I had merely bowed as she entered, and continued 
my occupation as before. 

In a little while, however, I was sensible that some one was 
approaching me, with a light, but slow and hesitating tread. It 
was little Arthur, irresistibly attracted by my dog Sancho, that 
was lying at my feet. On looking up, I beheld him standing 
about two yards off, with his clear blue eyes wistfully gazing on 
the dog, transfixed to the spot, not by fear of the animal, but 
by a timid disinclination to approach its master. A little encour- 
agement, however, induced him to come forward. The child, 
though shy, was not sullen. In a minute he was kneeling on 
the carpet, with his arms round Sancho’s neck, and in a minute 
or two more, the little fellow was seated on my knee, surveying 
with eager interest the various specimens of horses, cattle, pigs, 
and model farms portrayed in the volume before me. I glanced 
at his mother now and then, to see how she relished the new- 
sprung intimacy ; and I saw, by the unquiet aspect of her eye, 
that for some reason or other, she was uneasy at the child’s 
position. 

“ Arthur,” said she, at length, “ come here. Your are trouble- 
some to Mr. Markham : he wishes to read.” 

“ By no means, Mrs. Graham ; pray let him stay. I am as 
much amused as he is,” pleaded I. But still, with hand and 
eye, she silently called him to her side. 

“ No, mamma,” said the child ; “ let me look at these pictures 
first, and then I’ll come, and tell you all about them.” 

“We are going to have a small party on Monday, the fifth 
of November,” said my mother, “ and I hope you will not re- 
fuse to make one, Mrs. Graham. You can bring your little 
boy with you, you know — I dare say we shall be able to amuse 
him — and then you can make your own apologies to the Mill- 
wards and Wilsons — they will all be here I expect. 

“ Thank you, I never go to parties.” 

“ Oh ! but this will be quite a family concern — early hours, 
and nobody here but ourselves, and just the Millwards and 
Wilsons, most of whom you already know, and Mr. Lawrence, 
your landlord, whom you ought to make acquaintance with.” 

“ I do know something of him — but you must excuse me 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


23 


this time, for the evenings now are dark and damp, and Arthur, 
I fear, is too delicate to risk exposure to their influence with 
impunity. We must defer the enjoyment of your hospitality 
till the return of longer days and warmer nights.” 

“ Rose, now, at a hint from my mother, produced a decanter 
of wine, with accompaniments of glasses and cake, from the 
cupboard under the oak sideboard, and the refreshment was 
duly presented to the guests. They both partook of the cake, 
but obstinately refused the wine, in spite of their hostess’s hos- 
pitable attempts to force it upon them. Arthur, especially, 
shrank from the ruby nectar as if in terror and disgust, and 
was ready to cry when urged to take it. 

“Never mind, Arthur,” said his mamma, “Mrs. Markham 
thinks it will do you good, as you were tired with your walk ; 
but^she will not oblige you to take it ; I dare say you will do 
very well without. He detests the very sight of wine,” she 
added, “ and the smell of it almost makes him sick. I have 
been accustomed to make him swallow a little wine or weak 
spirits-and-water, by way of medicine when he was sick, and, 
in fact, I have done what I could to make him hate them.” 

Every body laughed, except the young widow and her 
son. 

“ Well, Mrs. Graham,” said my mother, wiping the tears of 
merriment from her bright blue eyes, “ well, you surprise me ! 
I really gave you credit for having more sense. The poor 
child will be the veriest milksop that ever was sopped ! Only 
think what a man you will make of him, if you persist in — ” 

“ I think it a very excellent plan,” interrupted Mrs. Graham 
with imperturbable gravity. By that means I hope to save 
him from one degrading vice at least. I wish I could render 
the incentives to every other equally innoxious in his case.” 

“ But by such means,” said I, “ you will never render him 
virtuous. What is it that constitutes virtue, Mrs. Graham 1 Is 
it the circumstance of being able and willing to resist tempt- 
ation, or that of having no temptations to resist 1 Is he a 
strong man that overcomes great obstacles and performs sur- 
piising achievements, though by dint of great muscular exer- 
tion and at the risk of some subsequent fatigue, or he that sits 
in his chair all day, with nothing to do more laborious than 
stimng the fire and carrying his food to his mouth 1 If you 
would have your son to walk honorably through the world, 
you must not attempt to clear the stones from his path, but 


24 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


teach him to walk firmly over them — not insist upon leading 
him by the hand, but let him learn to go alone.” 

“ I will lead him by the hand, Mr. Markham, till he has 
strength to go alone ; and I will clear as many stones from his 
path as I can, and teach him to avoid the rest, or walk firmly 
over l^hem, as you say ; for when I have done my utmost in the 
way of clearance, there will still be plenty left to exercise all 
the agility, steadiness, and circumspection he will ever have. 
It is all very well to talk about noble resistance and trials of 
virtue ; but for fifty, or five hundred, men that have yielded to 
temptation, show me one that has had virtue to resist. And 
why should I take it for granted that my son will be one in a 
thousand, and not rather prepare for the worst, and suppose he 

will be like his like the rest of mankind, unless I take care 

to prevent it V' 

“You are very complimentary to us all,” I observed. 

“ I know nothing about you; I speak of those I do know : 
and when I see the whole race of mankind (with a few rare, 
exceptions), stumbling and blundering along the path of life, 
sinking into every pitfall, and breaking their shins over every 
impediment that lies in their way, shall I not use all the 
means in my power to insure for him a smoother and a safer 
passage 

“ Yes, but the surest means will be, to endeavor to fortify 
him against temptation, not to remove it out of his way.” 

“ I will do both, Mr. Markham. God knows he will have 
temptations enough to assail him, both from within and with- 
out, when I have done all I can to render vice as uninviting to 
him as it is abominable in its own nature. I myself have had, 
indeed, but few incentives to what the world calls vice, but yet 
I have experienced temptations and trials of another kind, that 
have required, on many occasions, more watchfulness and firm- 
ness to resist than I have hitherto been able to muster against 
them. And this, I believe, is w’^hat most others would acknowl- 
edge, who are accustomed to reflection and wishful to strive 
against their natural corruptions.” 

“ Yes,” said ray mother, but half apprehending her drift ; 
“but you would not judge of a boy by yourself. And my dear 
Mrs. Graham, let me warn you in good time against the error 
— the fatal error, I may call it — of taking that boy’s education 
upon yourself. Because you are clever in some things, and 
well informed, you may fancy yourself equal to the task ; but 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


25 


indeed you are not, and if you persist in the attempt, believe 
me, you will bitterly repent it when the mischief is done.” 

“ I am to send him to school, I suppose, to learn to despise 
his mother’s authority and affection !” said the lady, with a 
rather bitter smile. 

“ Oh, no ! But if you would have a boy to despise his mother, 
let her keep him at home, and spend her life in petting him up, 
and slaving to indulge his follies and caprices.” 

“ I perfectly agree with you Mrs. Markham ; but nothing can 
be further from my principles and practice than such criminal 
weakness as that.” 

“Well, but you treat him like a girl — you’ll spoil his spirit, 
and make a mere Miss Nancy of him — you will indeed, Mrs. 
Graham, whatever you may think — but I’ll get Mr. Millward 
to talk to you about it : — he'll tell you the consequences ; he’ll 
set it before you as plain as the day ; and tell you what you 
ought to do, and all about it; and, I don’t doubt, he’ll be able 
to convince you in a minute.” 

“No occasion to trouble the vicar,” said Mrs. Graham, glancing 
at me — I suppose I was smiling at my mother’s unbounded con- 
fidence in that worthy gentleman — “ Mr. Markham here thinks 
his powers of conviction at least equal to Mr. Millward’s. If I 
hear not him, neither should I be convinced though one rose 
from the dead, he would tell you. Well, Mr. Markham, you that 
maintain that a boy should not be shielded from evil, but sent 
out to battle against it, alone and unassisted — not taught to 
avoid the snares of life, but boldly to rush into them, or over 
them, as he may — to seek danger rather than shun it, and feed 
his virtue by temptation — would you — ” 

“ I beg your pardon, Mrs. Graham — but you get on too fast. 
I have not yet said that a boy should be taught to rush into the 
snares of life, or even willfully to seek temptation for the sake 
of exercising his virtue by overcoming it; I only say that it is 
better to arm and strengthen your hero, than to disarm and 
enfeeble the foe ; and if you were to rear an oak sapling in a 
hothouse, tending it carefully night and day, and shielding it 
from every breath of wind, you could not expect it to become 
a hardy tree, like that which has grown up on the mountain- 
side, ^exposed to all the action of the elements, and not even 
shelured from the shock of the tempest.” 

j Granted ; but would you use the same argument >vith 
’ |egard to a girl ]” 


B 


26 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ Certainly not.” 

“No; you would have her to be tenderly and delicately 
nurtured, like a hot-house plant — taught to cling to others for 
direction and support, and guarded, as much as possible, from 
the very knowledge of evil. But will you be so good as to inform 
me, why you make this distinction ] Is it that you think she 
has no virtue ]” 

“ Assuredly not.” 

“Well, but you affirm that virtue is only elicited by tempta- 
tion ; and you think that a woman can not be too little exposed 
to temptation, or too little acquainted with vice, or any thing 
connected therewith. It must be, either, that you think she is 
essentially so vicious, or so feeble-minded that she can not with- 
stand temptation — and though she may be pure and innocent 
as long as she is kept in ignorance and restraint, yet, being 
destitute of real virtue,^ to teach her how to sin is at once to 
make her a sinner, and the greater her knowledge, the wider 
her liberty, the deeper will be her depravity — whereas, in the 
nobler sex, there is a natural tendency to goodness, guarded by 
a superior fortitude, which, the more it is exercised by trials and 
dangers, is only the further developed — ” 

“ Heaven forbid that I should think so !” I interrupted at last. 

“ Well then, it must be that you think they are hoth weak and 
prone to err, and the slightest error, the merest shadow of pol- 
lution will ruin the one, while the character of the other will 
be strengthened and embellished — ^liis education properly fin- 
ished by a little practical acquaintance with forbidden things. 
Such experience, to him (to use a trite simile), will be like the 
storm to the oak, which, though it may scatter the leaves, and 
snap the smaller branches, serves but to rivet the roots, and to 
harden and condense the fibres of the tree. You would have 
us encourage our sons to prove all things by their own experi- 
ence, while our daughters must not even profit by the experience 
of others. Now 1 would have both so to benefit by the experi- 
ence of others, and the precepts of a higher authority, that they 
should know beforehand to refuse the evil and choose the good, 
and require no experimental proofs to teach them the evil of 
transgression. I would not send a poor girl into the world, 
unarmed against her foes, and ignorant of the snares thati^^^^set 
her path ; nor would I watch and guard her till, deprived 'pf 
self-respect and self-reliance, she lost the power or the will m 
watch and guard herself; and as for my son — if I thought h*i 


THE TENANT OF VVILDFELL II^ALE. 


21 


would grow up to be what you call a man of the world — one 
that has ‘ seen life' and glories in his experience, even though he 
should so far profit by it, as to sober down, at length, into a 
useful and respected member of society — I would rather that 
he died to-morrow ! rather a thousand times !” she earnestly 
repeated, pressing her darling to her side and kissing his fore- 
head with intense affection. He had, already, left his new 
companion, and been standing for some time beside his mother’s 
knee, looking up into her face, and listening in silent wonder to 
her incomprehensible discourse. 

“ Well ! you ladies must always have the last word, I sup- 
pose,” said I, observing her rise, and begin to take leave of my 
mother. 

“ You may have as many words as you please — only I can’t 
stay to hear them.” 

“ No ; that is the way. You hear just as much of an argu- 
ment as you please ; and the rest may be spoken to the wind.” 

“ If you are anxious to say any thing more on the subject,” 
replied she, as she shook hands with Rose, “ you must bring your 
sister to see me some fine day, and I’ll listen, as patiently as you 
could wish, to whatever you please to say. I would rather be lec- 
tured by you than the vicar, because, I should have less remorse 
in telling you, at the end of the discourse, that I preserve my own 
opinion precisely the same as at the beginning — as would be the 
case, I am persuaded, with regard to either logician.” 

“ Yes, of course,” replied I, determined to be as provoking 
as herself ; “ for, when a lady does consent to listen to an argu- 
ment against her own opinions, she is always predetermined to 
withstand it — to listen only with her bodily ears, keeping the 
mental organs resolutely closed against the strongest reasoning.” 

“ Good morning, Mr. Markham,” said my fair antagonist with 
a pitying smile ; and deigning no further rejoinder, she slightly 
bowed, and was about to withdraw ; but her son, with childish 
impertinence, arrested her by exclaiming — 

“ Mamma, you have not shaken hands with Mr. Markham.” 

She laughingly turned round, and held out her hand. I gave 
it a spiteful squeeze ; for I was annoyed at the continual injus- 
tice she had done me, from the very dawn of our acquaintance. 
Without knowing any thing about my real disposition and prin- 
ciples, she was evidently prejudiced against me, and seemed 
bent upon showing me that her opinions respecting me, on every 
particular, fell far below those I entertained of myself. I was 


28 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


naturally touchy, or, it would not have vexed me so much. 
Perhaps, too, I was a little bit spoiled by my mother and sister, 
and some other ladies of my acquaintance ; and yet, I was by 
no means a fop — of that I am fully convinced, whether you are 
or not. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE PARTY. 

Our party, on the fifth of November, passed off very well, in 
spite of Mrs. Graham’s refusal to grace it with her presence. 
Indeed, it is probable that, had she been there, there would have 
been less cordiality, freedom, and frolic among us than there 
was without her. 

My mother, as usual, was cheerful and chatty, full of activity 
and good nature, and only faulty in being too anxious to make 
her guests happy, thereby forcing several of them to do what 
their souls abhorred, in the way of eating or drinking, sitting 
opposite the blazing fire, or talking when they would be silent. 
Nevertheless, they bore it very well, being all in their holiday 
humors. 

Mr. Millward was mighty in important dogmas and sententious 
jokes, pompous anecdotes and oracular discourses, dealt out for 
the edification of the whole assembly in general, and of the 
admiring Mrs. Markham, the polite Mr. Lawrence, the sedate 
Mary Millward, the quiet Richard Wilson, and the matter of 
fact Robert, in particular — as being the most attentive listeners. 

Mrs. Wilson was more brilliant than ever, with her budgets 
of fresh news and old scandal, strung together with trivial 
questions and remarks, and oft repeated observations, uttered 
apparently for the sole purpose of denying a moment’s rest to 
her inexhaustible organs of speech. She had brought her knit- 
ting with her, and it seemed as if her tongue had laid a wager 
with her fingers, to outdo them in swift and ceaseless motion. 

Her daughter Jane was, of course, as graceful and elegant, 
as witty and seductive as she could possibly manage to be ; for 
here were all the ladies to outshine, and all the gentleman to 
charm — and Mr. Lawrence, especially, to capture and subdue. 
Her little arts to effect his subjugation were too subtle and 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


29 


impalpable to attract my obsei'vation ; but I thought there was 
a certain refined affectation of superiority, and an ungenial self- 
consciousness about her, that negatived all her advantages, and 
after she was gone Rose interpreted to me her various looks, 
words, and actions with a mingled acuteness and asperity that 
made me wonder, equally, at the lady’s artifice and my sister’s 
penetration, and ask myself if she too had an eye to the squire 
— but never mind Halford ; she had not. 

Richard Wilson, Jane’s younger brother, sat in a corner, ap- 
parently good-tempered, but silent and shy, desirous to escape 
obsei’vation, but willing enough to listen and observe; and 
although somewhat out of his element, he would have been 
happy enough in his own quiet way, if my mother could only 
have let him alone, but in her mistaken kindness, she would keep 
persecuting him with her attentions — pressing upon him all 
manner of viands, under the notion that he was too bashful to 
help himself, and obliging him to shout across the room his 
monos-yllabic replies to the numerous questions and observations 
by which she vainly attempted to draw him into conversation. 

Rose informed me that he never would have favored us with 
his company, but for the importunities of his sister Jane, who 
was most anxious to. show Mr. Lawrence that she had at least 
one brother more gentlemanly and refined than Robert. That 
worthy individual she had been equally solicitous to keep away ; 
but he affirmed that he saw no reason why he should not enjoy 
a crack with Markham and th» old lady (my mother was not old, 
really), and bonny Miss Rose and the parson, as well as the 
best ; and he was in the right of it, too. So he talked common- 
place with my mother and Rose, and discussed parish affairs with 
the vicar, farming matters with me, and politics with us both. 

Mary Millward was another mute, not so much tormented 
with cruel kindness as Dick Wilson, because she had a certain 
short, decided way of answering and refusing, and was supposed 
to be rather sullen than diffident. However that might be, she 
certainly did not give much pleasure to the company ; nor did 
she appear to derive much from it. Eliza told me she had only 
come because her father insisted upon it, having taken it into 
his head that she devoted herself too exclusively to her house- 
hold duties, to the neglect of such relaxations and innocent en- 
joyments as were proper to her age and sex. She seemed, to 
me, to be good-humored enough, on the whole. Once or twice 
she was provoked to laughter by the wit, or the merriment of 


30 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


some favored individual among us ; and then I observed she 
sought the eye of Richard Wilson, who sat over against her. As 
he studied with her father, she had some acquaintance with him, 
in spite of the retiring habits of both, and I suppose there was 
a kind of fellow-feeling established between them. 

My Eliza was charming beyond description, coquettish with- 
out affectation, and evidently more desirous to engage my atten- 
tion than that of all the room besides. Her delight in having me 
near her, seated or standing by her side, whispering in her ear, 
or pressing her hand in the dance, was plainly legible in her 
glowing face and heaving bosom, however belied oy saucy 
words and gestures. But I had better hold my tongue : if I 
boast of these things now, I shall have to blush hereafter. 

To proceed, then, with the various individuals of our party : 
Rose was simple and natural, as usual, and full of mirth and 
vivacity. 

Fergus was impertinent and absurd; but his impertinence and 
folly served to make others laugh, if they did not raise himself 
in their estimation. 

And, finally (for I omit myself), Mr. Lawrence was gentle- 
manly and inoffensive to all, and polite to the vicar and the 
ladies, especially his hostess and her daughter, and Miss Wilson 
— misguided man ; he had not the taste to prefer Eliza Mill- 
ward. Mr. Lawrence and I were on tolerably intimate terms. 
Essentially of reserved habits, and but seldom quitting the seclud- 
ed place of his birth, where he l»ad lived in solitary state since 
the death of his father, he had neither the opportunity nor the 
inclination for forming many acquaintances ; and, of all he had 
ever known, I (judging by the results) was the companion most 
agreeable to his taste. I liked the man well enough, but he was 
too cold, and shy, and self-contained, to obtain my cordial sym- 
pathies. A spirit of candor and frankness, when wholly unac- 
companied with coarseness, he admired in others, but he could 
not acquire it himself. His excessive reserve upon all his own 
concerns was, indeed, provoking and chilly enough ; but I for- 
gave it, from a conviction that it originated less in pride and 
want of confidence in his friends than in a certain morbid feeling 
of delicacy, and a peculiar diffidence, that he was sensible of, 
but wanted energy to overcome. His heart was like a sensitive 
plant, that opens for a moment in the sunshine, but curls up and 
shrinks into itself at the slightest touch of the finger, or the light- 
est breath of wind. And, upon the w'hole, our intimacy was 


TflE TENANT OF WiLDFELL HALL. 


31 


rather a mutual predilection than a deep and solid friendship, 
such as has since arisen between myself and you, Halford, whom, 
in spite of your occasional crustiness, I can liken to nothing so 
well as an old coat, unimpeachable in texture, but easy and loose 
— that has conformed itself to the shape of the wearer, and which 
he may use as he pleases, without being bothered with the fear 
of spoiling it ; whereas Mr. Lawrence "was like a new garment, 
all very neat and trim to look at, but so tight in the elbows, that 
you would fear to split the seams by the unrestricted motion of 
your arms, and so smooth and fine in surface that you scruple 
to expose it to a single drop of rain. 

Soon after the arrival of the guests, my mother mentioned 
Mrs. Graham, regretted she was not there to meet them, and 
explained to the Millwards and Wilsons the reasons she had 
given for neglecting to return their calls, hoping they would ex- 
cuse her, as she was sure she did not mean to be uncivil, and 
would be glad to see them at any time. 

“ But she is a very singular lady, Mr. Lawrence,” added she ; 
“ we don’t know what to make of her ; but I dare say you can 
tell us something about her ; for she is your tenant, you know, 
and she said she knew you a little.” 

All eyes were turned to Mr. Lawrence. I thought he looked 
unnecessarily confused at being so appealed to. 

“ I, Mrs, Markham !” said he, “ you are mistaken — I don’t — 
that is — I have seen her certainly ; but I am the last person 
you should apply to for information respecting Mrs. Graham.” 

He then immediately turned to Rose, and asked her to favor 
the company with a song, or a tune on the piano. • 

“ No,” said she; “you must ask Miss Wilson : she outshines 
us all in singing, and music too.” 

Miss Wilson demurred. 

“ She'll sing readily enough,” said Fergus, “ if you’ll under- 
take to stand by her, Mr. Lawrence, and turn over the leaves 
for her.” 

“I shall be most happy to do so. Miss Wilson, will you 
allow me ]” 

She bridled her long neck, and smiled, and suffered him to 
lead her to the instrument, where she played and sang, in her 
very best style, one piece after another ; while }ie stood patient- 
ly by, leaning one hand on the back of her chair, and turning 
over the leaves of her book with the other. Perhaps, he was 
as much charmed with her performance as she was. It was all 


32 


THE TENANT OF WlLDFELL HALL. 


very fine in its way ; but I can not say that it moved me very 
deeply. There was plenty of skill and execution, but precious 
little feeling. 

But we had not done with Mrs. Graham yet. 

“ I don’t take wine, Mrs. Markham,” said Mr. Millward, upon 
the introduction of that beverage ; “ I’ll take a little of your 
home-brewed-ale. I always prefer your home-brewed to any 
thing else.” 

Flattered at this compliment, my mother rang the bell, and 
a china jug of our best ale was presently brought, and set 
before the worthy gentleman who so well knew how to appre- 
ciate its excellencies. 

“ Now THIS is the thing !” cried he, pouring out a glass of 
the same in a long stream, skillfully directed from the jug to the 
tumbler, so as to produce much Jbam without spilling a drop ; 
and, ha'«'ing surveyed it for a moment opposite the candle, he 
took a deep draught, and then smacked his lips, drew a long 
breath, and refilled his glass, my mother looking on with the 
greatest satisfaction. 

“There’s nothing like this, Mrs. Markham!” said he, “I 
always maintain there’s nothing to compare with your home- 
brewed ale.” 

“ I’m sure I’m glad you like it, sir. I always look after the 
brewing myself, as well as the cheese and butter — I like to have 
things well done, while we’re about it.” 

“ Quite right, Mrs. Markham 1” 

“ But then, Mr. Millward, you don’t think it wrong to take a 
little wine now and then — or a little spirits either]” said my 
mother, as she handed a smoking tumbler of gin and water 
to Mrs. Wilson, who affirmed that wine sat heavy on her sto- 
mach, and whose son Robert was at that moment helping him- 
self to a pretty stiff glass of the same. 

“ By no means 1” replied the oracle, with a Jove-like nod ; 

“ these things are all blessings and mercies, if we only knew 
how to make use of them.” 

“ But Mrs. Graham doesn’t think so. You shall just hear 
now, what she told us the other day — I told her I’d tell you.” 

And my mother favored the company with a particulaiX 
account of that lady’s mistaken ideas and conduct regarding 
the matter in hand, concluding with, “ Now don’t you think it 
is wrong ]” ^ 

“ Wrong 1” repeated the vicar, with more than common so- 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


33 


leranity — “ cnminal, I should say — ciiminal ! Not only is it 
making a fool of the boy, but it is despising the gifts of Provi- 
dence, and teaching him to trample them under his feet.” 

He then entered more fully into the question, and explained 
at large the folly and impiety of such a proceeding. . My mother 
heard him with profoundest reverence ; and even Mrs. Wilson 
vouchsafed to rest her tongue for a moment, and listen in 
silence, while she complacently sipped her gin and water. Mr. 
Lawrence sat with his elbow on the table, carelessly playing 
with his half-empty wine glass, and covertly smiling to himself. 

“ But don’t you think, Mr. Millward,” suggested he, when 
at length that gentleman paused in his discourse, “ that when 
a child may be naturally prone to intemperance — by the fault 
of its parents or ancestors, for instance — some precautions are 
advisable (Now it was generally believed that Mr. Lawrence’s 
father had shortened his days by intemperance.) 

“ Some precautions, it may be ; but temperance, sir, is one 
thing, and abstinence another.” 

“ But I have heard that, with some persons, temperance — 
that is moderation — is almost impossible ; and if abstinence be 
an evil (which some have doubted), no one will deny that 
excess is a greater. Some parents have entirely prohibited 
their children from tasting intoxicating liquors ; but a parent’s 
authority can not last forever ; children are naturally prone to 
hanker after forbidden things ; and a child, in such a case, 
would be likely to have a strong curiosity to taste, and try the 
effect of what has been so lauded and enjoyed by others, so 
strictly forbidden to himself — which curiosity would generally 
be gratified on the first convenient opportunity ; and the re- 
straint once broken, serious consequences might ensue. I don’t 
pretend to be a judge of such matters, but it seems to me, that 
this plan of Mrs. Graham’s, as you describe it, Mrs. Markham, 
extraordinary as it may be, is not without its advantages ; for 
here, you see, the child is delivered at once from temptation ; 
he has no secret curiosity, no hankering desire ; he is as well 
acquainted with the tempting liquors as he ever wishes to be ; 
and is thoroughly disgusted with them without having suffered 
/ from their effects.” 

“ And is that right, sir h Have I not proven to you how 
wrong it is — how contrary to Scripture and to reason to teach 
a child to look with contempt and disgust upon the blessings of 
Providence, instead of to use them aright 1” 

B* 


34 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ You may consider laudanum a blessing of Providence, sir/’ 
replied Mr. Lawrence, smiling; “ and yet, you will allow that 
most of us had better abstain from it, even in moderation; but,” 
added he, “ I would not desire you to follow out my simile too 
closely — in witness whereof I finish my glass.” 

“ And take another, I hope, Mr. Lawrence,” said my mother 
pushing the bottle toward him. 

He politely declined, and pushing his chair a little away from 
the table, leaned back toward me — I w'as seated a trifle behind, 
on the sofa beside Eliza Millward — and carelessly asked me if I 
knew Mrs. Graham. 

“ I have met her once or twice,” I replied. 

“ What do you think of her I” 

“ I can not say that I like her much. She is handsome — or 
rather, I should say, distinguished and interesting — in her ap- 
pearance, but by no m^ans amiable — a woman liable to take 
strong prejudices, I shoiSld .fancy, and stick to them through 
thick and thin, twisting every thing into conformity with her own 
preconceived opinions — too hard, too sharp, too bitter for my 
taste.” 

He made no reply, but looked down and bit his lip, and 
shortly after rose and sauntered up to Miss Wilson, as much 
repelled by me, I fancy, as attracted by her. I scarcely noticed 
it at the time, but afterward I was led to recall this and other 
trifling facts, of a similar nature, to my remembrance, when — 
but I must not anticipate. 

We wound up the evening with dancing — our worthy pastor 
thinking it no scandal to be present on the occasion, though one 
of, the village musicians was engaged to direct our evolutions 
with his violin. But Mary Millv^rd obstinately refused to join 
us ; and so did Richard Wilson, though my mother earnestly 
entreated him to do so, and even offered to be his partner. 

We managed very well without them, however. With a sin- 
gle set of quadrilles, and several country dances, we carried it 
on to a pretty l9,te hour ; and at length, having called upon our 
musician to strike up a waltz, I was just about to vvhirl Eliza 
round in that delightful dance, accompanied by Lawrence and 
Jane Wilson, and Fergus and Rose, when Mr. Millward inter- \ 
posed with — 

“ No, no, I don’t allow that ! Come, it’s time to be going 
now.” 

“ Oh, no, papa pleaded Eliza. 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


35 


“ High time, my girl — high time ! — Moderation in all things,' 
remember ! That’s the-plan — ‘ Let your moderation be known 
unto all men !’ ” 

But in revenge, I followed Eliza into the dimly lighted pas- 
sage, where under pretense of helping her on with her shawl, 
I fear I must plead guilty to snatching a kiss behind her father’s 
back, while he was enveloping his throat and chin in the folds 
of a mighty comforter. But alas ! in turning round, there was 
my mother close beside me. The consequence was, that no 
sooner were the guests departed, than I was doomed to a very 
serious remonstrance, which unpleasantly checked the galloping 
course of my spirits, and made a disagreeable close to the evening. 

“ My dear Gilbert,” said she, “ I wish you wouldn’t do so ! 
You know how deeply I have your advantage at heart, how I 
love you and prize you above every thing else in the world, and 
how much I long to see you well settled in life — and how bit- 
terly it would grieve me to see you married to that girl — or any 
other in the neighborhood. What you see in her I don’t know. 
It isn’t only the want of money that I think about — nothing of 
that kind — but there’s neither beauty, nor cleverness, nor good- 
ness, nor any thing else that’s desirable. If you knew your own 
value as I do, you wouldn’t dream of it. Do wait awhile and 
see ! If you bind yourself to her, you’ll repent it all your life- 
time when you look around you and see how many better there 
are. Take my w'ord for it, you will.” 

“ Well mother, do be quiet ! I hate to be lectured ! I’m not 
going to marry yet, I tell you ; but — dear me ! mayn’t I enjoy 
myself at all?^ 

“ Yes, my dear boy, but not in that way. Indeed you 
shouldn’t do such things. You would be wronging the girl, if 
she were what she ought to be ; but I assure you she is as art- 
ful a little hussy as any body need wish to see ; and you’ll get 
entangled in her snares before you know where you are. And 
if you do marry her, Gilbert, you’ll break my heart — so there’s 
an end of it.” 

“ Well, don’t cry about it mother,” said I ; for the tears were 
gushing from her eyes, “ there, let that kiss efface the one I gave 
Eliza ; don’t abuse her any more, and set your mind at rest ; 
for I’ll promise never to — that is. I’ll promise to — to think twice 
before I take any important step you seriously disapprove of.” 

So saying, I lighted my candle, and went to bed, consider- 
ably quenched in spirit. 


CHAPTER V. 


THE STUDIO. 

It was about the close of the month, that, yielding at length 
to the urgent importunities of Rose, I accompanied her in a 
visit to Wildfell Hall. To our surprise, we were ushered into 
a room where the first object that met the eye was a painter’s 
easel, with a table beside it covered with rolls of canvas, bottles 
of oil and varnish, pallet, brushes, paints, &c. Leaning against 
the wall were several sketches in various stages of progression, 
and a few finished paintings — mostly of landscapes and figures. 

“ I must make you welcome to my studio,” said Mi’s. Gra- 
ham ; “ there is no fire in the sitting room to-day, and it is rather 
too cold to show you into a place with an empty grate.” 

And disengaging a couple of chairs from the artistical lumbei- 
that usurped them, she bid us be seated, and resumed her place 
beside the easel — not facing it exactly, but now and then 
glancing at the picture upon it while she conversed, and giving 
it an occasional touch with her brush, as if she found it impossi- 
ble to wean her attention entirely from her occupation to fix it 
upon her guests. It was a view of Wildfell Hall, as seen at 
early morning from the field below, rising in dark relief against 
a sky of clear silvery blue, with a few red streaks on the hori- 
zon, faithfully drawn and colored, and very elegantly and artist- 
ically handled. 

“ I see your heart is in your work, Mrs. Graham,” observed 
I : “ I must beg you to go on with it ; for if you suffer our 
presence to interrupt you, we shall be constrained to regard 
ourselves as unwelcome intruders.” 

“ Oh, no !” replied she, throwing her brush on to the table, 
as if startled into politeness. “ I am not so beset with visitors, 
but that I can readily spare a few minutes to the few that do 
favor me with their company.” 

“ You have almost completed your painting,” said I, ap- 
proaching to observe it more closely, and surveying it with a 
greater degree of admiration and delight than I cared to ex- 
press, A few more touches in the foreground will finish it, I 
should think. But why have you called it Fernley Manor, 
Cumberland, instead of Wildfell Hall, rshire ]” I asked. 


THE TENANT OP WILDFELL HALL. 


37 


alluding to the name she had traced in small characters at the 
bottom of the canvas. 

But immediately I was sensible of having committed an act 
of impertinence in so doing; for she colored and hesitated; but 
after a moment’s pause, with a kind of desperate frankness, she 
replied — 

“ Because I have friends — acquaintances at least — in the 
world, from whom I desire my present abode to be concealed ; 
and as they might see the picture, and might possibly recognize 
the style, in spite of the false initials I have put in the corner, I 
take the precaution to give a false name to the place also, in 
order to put them on a wrong scent, if they should attempt to 
trace me out by it.” 

“ Then you don’t intend to keep the picture V’ said I, anxious 
to say any thing to change the subject. 

“ No ; I can not afford to paint fur my own amusement.” 

“Mamma sends all her pictures to London,” said Arthur; 
“ and somebody sells them for her there, and sends us the 
money.” 

In looking round upon the other pieces, I remarked a pretty 
sketch of Lindenhope from the top of the hill ; another view of 
the old Hall, basking in the sunny haze of a quiet summer after- 
noon ; and a simple but striking little picture of a child brood- 
ing with looks of silent, but deep and sorrowful regret, over a 
handful of withered flowers, with glimpses of dark, low hills and 
autumnal fields behind it, and a dull, beclouded sky above. 

“ You see there is a sad dearth of subjects,” obsei^ved the fair 
artist. “ I took the old Hall once on a moonlight night, and I 
suppose I must take it again on a snowy winter’s day, and then 
again on a dark, cloudy evening ; for I really have nothing else 
to paint. I have been told that you have a fine view of the sea 
somewhere in the neighborhood. Is it true 'I and is it within 
walking distance V’ 

“ Yes, if you don’t object to walking four miles — or nearly 
so — little short of eight miles there and back — and over a some- 
what rough, fatiguing road.” 

“ In what direction does it lie 

*■ I described the situation as well as I could, and was entering 
upon an explanation of the various roads, lanes, and fields to be 
traversed in order to reach it, the goings straight on, and turn- 
ings to the right, and the left, when she checked me with — 

“ Oh, stop ! don’t tell me now : I shall forget every word of 


38 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL H.ILE. 


your directions before I require them. I shall not think about 
going till next spring; and then, perhaps, I may trouble you. 
At present we have the winter before us, and — ” 

She suddenly paused, with a suppressed exclamation started 
up from her seat, and saying, “ Excuse me one moment,” hur- 
ried from the room, and shut the door behind her. 

Curious to see what had startled her so, I looked toward the 
window — for her eyes had been carelessly fixed upon it the 
moment before — and just beheld the skirts of a man’s coat 
vanishing behind a large holly bush that stood between the 
window and the porch. 

“ It’s mamma’s friend,” said Arthur. 

Rose and I looked at each other. 

“ I don’t know what to make of her, at all,” whispered Rose. 

The child looked at her in gi'ave surprise. She straightway 
began to talk to him on indifferent matters, while I amused 
myself with looking at the pictures. There was one in an ob- 
scure corner that I had not before observed. It was a little 
child, seated on the gi*ass with its lap full of flowers. The tiny 
features and large blue eyes, smiling through a shock of light 
brown curls, shaken over the forehead as it bent above its 
treasure, bore sufficient resemblance to those of the young 
gentleman before me, to proclaim it a portrait of Arthur Gra- 
ham in his early infancy. 

In taking this up to bring it to the light, I discovered another 
behind it, with its face to the wall. I ventured to take that up 
too. It was the portrait of a gentlemen in the full pride of 
youthful manhood — handsome enough, and not badly executed ; 
but if done by the same hand as the others, it was evidently 
some years before ; for there was far more careful minuteness of 
detail, and less of that freshness of coloring and freedom of 
handling that delighted and surprised me in them. Neverthe- 
less, I surveyed it with considerable interest. There was a 
certain individuality in the features and expression that stamped 
It, at once, a successful likeness. The bright, blue eyes regarded 
the spectator with a kind of lurking drollery — you almost ex- 
pected to see them wink; the lips — a little too voluptuously 
full — seemed ready to break into a smile; the warmly-* 
tinted cheeks were embellished with a luxuriant growth of red- 
dish whiskers ; while the bright chestnut hair, clustering in 
abundant, wavy curls, trespassed too much upon the forehead, 
and seemed to intimate that the owner thereof was prouder of 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


39 


his beauty than his intellect — as perhaps, he had reason to be ; 
and yet he looked no fool. 

I had not had the portrait in my hands two minutes before the 
fair artist retunied. 

“ Only some one come about the pictures,’’ said she, in 
apology for her abrupt departure — “ I told him to wait.” 

“ I fear it will be considered an act of impertinence,” said I, 
“ to presume to look at a picture that the artist has turned to 
the wall ; but may I ask — ” • 

“ It is an act of very gi*eat impertinence, sir ; and therefore 
I beg you will ask nothing about it, for your curiosity will not 
be gi'atified,” replied she, attempting to cover the tartness of 
her rebuke with a smile ; but I could see by her flushed cheek 
and kindling eye that she was seriously annoyed. 

“ I was only going to ask if you had painted it yourself,” 
said I, sulkily resigning the picture into her hands ; for without 
a grain of ceremony she took it from me ; and quickly restoring 
it to the dark corner, with its face to the wall, placed the other 
against it as before, and then turned to me and laughed. 

But I was in no humor for jesting. I carelessly turned to 
the window, and stood looking out upon the desolate garden, 
leaving her to talk to Rose for a minute or two ; and then, 
telling my sister it was time to go, shook hands with the little 
gentleman, coolly bowed to the lady, and moved toward the 
door. But, having bid adieu to Rose, Mrs. Graham presented 
her hand to me, saying with a soft voice, and by no means a 
disagreeable smile — 

“ Let not the sun go down upon your wrath, Mr. Markham. 
I’m sorry I offended you by my abruptness.” 

When a lady condescends to apologize, there is no keeping 
one’s anger, of course ; so we parted good friends for once ; 
and this time I squeezed her hand with a cordial, not a spiteful 
pressure. 


CHAPTER VI. 


PROGRESSION. 

During the next four months I did not enter Mrs. Graham’s 
house, nor she mine ; but still the ladies continued to talk about 
her, and still our acquaintance continued, though slowly, to 
advance. As for their talk, I paid but little attention to that 
(when it related to the fair hermit, I mean), and the only infor- 
mation I derived from it was, that one fine, frosty day she 
had ventured to take her little boy as far as the vicarage, and 
that, unfortunately, nobody was at home but Miss Mill ward ; 
nevertheless, she had sat a long time, and, by all accounts, they 
had found a good deal to say to each other, and parted with a 
mutual desire to meet again. But Mary liked children, and 
fond mammas like those who can duly appreciate their treasures. 

But sometimes I saw her myself — not only when she came 
to church, but when she was out on the hills with her son, 
whether taking a long, purpose-like walk, or — on special line 
days — leisurely rambling over the moor, or the bleak pasture- 
lands surrounding the old Hall, herself with a book in her hand, 
her son gamboling about her ; and on any of these occasions, 
when I caught sight of her in my solitary walks or rides, or 
while following my agricultural pursuits, I generally contrived 
to meet or overtake her ; for I rather liked to see Mrs. Graham, 
^and to talk to her ; and I decidedly liked to talk to her little 
companion, whom, when once the ice of his shyness was fairly 
broken, I found to be a very amiable, intelligent, and entertaining 
little fellow, and we soon became excellent friends — how much 
to the gratification of his mamma, I can not undertake to say. 
I suspected at first that she was desirous of throwing cold water 
on this growing intimacy — to quench, as it were, the kindling 
flame of our friendship — but discovering, at length, in spite of 
her prejudice against me, that I was perfectly harmless, and 
even well-intentioned, and that, between myself and my dog, 
her son derived a great deal of pleasure from the acquaintance, 
that he would not otherwise have known, she ceased to object, 
and even welcomed my coming with a smile. 

As for Arthur, he would shout his welcome from afar, and 
run to meet me fifty yards from his mother’s side. If I hap- 


THE TENANT OF VVILDFELL HALE. 


41 


pened to be on horseback, he was sure to get a canter or a gal- 
lop ; or, if there was one of the draught horses within an 
available distance, he was treated to a steady ride upon that, 
which served his turn almost as well ; but his mother would 
always follow and trudge beside him — not so much, I believe, 
to insure his safe conduct, as to see that I instilled no objec- 
tionable notions into his infant mind ; for she was ever on the 
watch, and never would allow him to be taken out of her sight. 
What pleased her best of all, was to see him romping and rac- 
ing with Sancho, while I walked by her side — not, I fear, for 
love of my company (though I sometimes deluded myself with 
that idea), so much as for the delight she took in seeing her son 
thus happily engaged in the enjoyment of those active sports, 
so invigorating to his tender frame, yet so seldom exercised for 
want of playmates suited to his years ; and, perhaps, her plea- 
sure was sweetened, not a little, by the fact of my being with 
her instead of with him ; and therefore — incapable of doing him 
any injuiy, directly or indirectly, designedly or otherwise — small 
thanks to her for that same. 

But sometimes, I believe, she really had some little gratifica- 
tion in conversing with me ; and one bright February morning, 
during twenty minutes’ stroll along the moor, she laid aside her 
usual asperity and reserve, and fairly entered into conversation 
with me, discoursing with so much eloquence, and depth of 
thought and feeling, on a subject, happily coinciding with rny 
own ideas, and looking so beautiful withal, that I went home 
enchanted ; and on the way (morally) started to find myself 
thinking that, after all, it would, perhaps, be better to spend one’s 
days with such a woman than with Eliza Millward — and then, 
I (figuratively) blushed for my inconstancy. 

On entering the parlor, I found Eliza there, with Rose, and 
no one else. The surprise was not altogether so agreeable as it 
ought to have been. We chatted together a long time ; but I 
found her rather frivolous, and even a little insipid, compared 
with the more mature and earnest Mrs. Graham. — Alas, for hu- 
man constancy ! 

“ However,” thought I, “ I ought not to marry Eliza since 
my mother so strongly objects to it, and I ought not to delude 
the girl with the idea that I intended to do so. Now, if this 
mood continue, I shall have less difficulty in emancipating my 
affections from her soft, yet unrelenting sway ; and, though 
Mrs. Graham might be equally objectionable, I may be permit- 


42 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


tecl, like the doctors, to cure a greater evil by a less ; for I shall 
not fall seriously in love with the young widow, I think — nor 
she with me — that’s certain — but if I find a little pleasure in 
her society, I may surely be allowed to seek it ; and if the star 
of her divinity be bright enough to dim the luster of Eliza’s, so 
much the better ; but I scarcely can think it.” 

And thereafter, I seldom suffered a fine day to pass without 
paying a visit to Wildfell, about the time my new acquaintance 
usually left her hermitage; but so frequently was I balked in 
my expectations of another interview, so changeable was she in 
her times of coming forth, and in her places of resort, so tran- 
sient were the occasional glimpses I was able to obtain, that I 
felt half inclined to think she took as much pains to avoid my 
company, as I to seek hers ; but this was too disagi’eeable a 
supposition to be entertained a moment after it could conve- 
niently be dismissed. 

One calm, clear afternoon, however, in March, as I was super- 
intending the rolling of the meadow-land, and the repairing of a 
hedge in the valley, I saw Mrs. Graham down by the brook, 
with a sketch-book in her hand, absorbed in the exercise of her 
favorite art, while Arthur was putting on the time with construct- 
ing dams and breakwaters in the shallow, stony stream. I was 
rather in want of amusement, and so rare an opportunity was 
not to be neglected ; so, leaving both meadow and hedge, I 
quickly repaired to the spot — but not before Sancho, who, im- 
mediately upon perceiving his young friend, scoured at full gal- 
lop the intervening space, and pounced upon him with an im- 
petuous mirth that precipitated the child almost into the middle 
of the beck ; but, happily, the stones preserved him from any 
serious wetting, while their smoothness prevented his being too 
much hurt to laugh at the untoward event. 

Mrs. Graham was studying the distinctive characters of the 
different varieties of trees in their winter nakedness, and copy- 
ing, with a spirited, though delicate touch, their various ramifi- 
cations. She did not talk much ; but I stood and watched the 
progress of her pencil : it was a pleasure to behold it so dexter- 
ously guided by those fair and graceful fingers. But erelong 
Cheir dexterity became impaired, they began to hesitate, to 
tremble slightly, and make false strokes, and, then, suddenly 
came to a pause, while their owner laughingly raised her face 
to mine, and told me that her sketch did not profit by my super- 
intendence. 


THE TENANT OF WILDFALL HALL. 


43 


“ Then/’ said I, “ I’ll talk to Arthur, till you’ve done.” 

“ I should like to have a ride, Mr. Markham, if mamma will 
let me,” said the child. 

“ What on, my boy 

“ I think there’s a horse in that field,” replied he, pointing to 
where the strong black mare was pulling the roller. 

“ No, no, Arthur ; it’s too far,” objected his mother. 

But I promised to bring him safe back, after a turn or two 
up and down the meadow ; and when she looked at his eager 
face, she smiled, and let him go. It was the first time she had 
even allowed me to take him so much as half a field’s length 
from her side. 

Enthroned upon his monstrous steed, and solemnly proceed- 
ing up and down the wide, steep field, he looked the very in- 
caraation of quiet, gleeful satisfaction and delight. The rolling, 
however, was soon completed ; but when I dismounted the 
gallant horseman and restored him to his mother, she seemed 
rather displeased at my keeping him so long. She had shut up 
her sketch-book, and been, probably for some minutes, impa- 
tiently waiting his return. 

It was now high time to go home, she said, and would have 
bid me good evening ; but I was not going to leave her yet. 
I accompanied her half way up the hill. She became more 
sociable, and I was beginning to be veiy happy, but on coming 
within sight of the gi*im old Hall she stood still, and turned 
toward me while she spoke, as if expecting I should go no 
further, that the conversation would end here, and I should 
now take leave and depart — as, indeed, it was time to do, for 
“ the clear, cold eve” was fast “ declining,” the sun had set, 
and -the gT?5bous moon was visibly biightening in the pale gray 
sky. But a feeling, almost of compassion, riveted me to the 
spot. It seemed hard to leave her to such a lonely, comfortless 
home. I looked up at it. Silent and grim it frowned before 
us. A faint re(f light was gleaming from the lower windows of 
one wing ; but all the other windows were in darkness, and 
many exhibited their black, cavernous gulfs, entirely destitute 
of glazing or framework. 

“ Do you not find it a desolate place to live in ]” said I, after 
a moment of silent contemplation. 

“ I do, sometimes,” replied she. “ On winter evenings, when 
Arthur is in bed, and I am sitting there alone, hearing the 
bleak wind moaning round me and howling through the ruinous 


44 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


old chambers, no books or occupations can repress the dismal 
thoughts and apprehensions that come crowding in. But it is 
folly to give way to such weakness, I know. If Rachel is satis- 
fied with such a life, why should not I h Indeed I can not be 
too thankful for such an asylum, while it is left me.” 

The closing sentence was uttered in tin undertone, as if 
spoken rather to herself than to me. She then bid me good 
evening, and withdrew. 

I had not proceeded many steps on my way homeward, 
when I perceived Mr. Lawrence, on his pretty gray pony, 
coming up the rugged lane that crossed over the hill top. I 
went a little out of my way to speak to him, for we^had not 
met for some time. 

“ Was that Mrs. Graham you were speaking to just now I” said 
he, after the first few words of greeting had passed between us. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Humph ! I thought so.” He looked contemplatively at his 
horse’s mane, as if he had some serious cause of dissatisfaction 
with it or something else. 

“ Well ! what then 1” 

“Oh, nothing!” replied he. “Only I thought you disliked 
her,” he quietly added, curling his classic lip with a slightly 
sarcastic smile. 

“ Suppose I did ; mayn’t a man change his mind on further 
acquaintance 1” 

“ Yes, of course,” returned he, nicely reducing an entangle- 
ment in the pony’s redundant, hoary mane. Then suddenly 
turning to me, and fixing his shy, hazel eyes upon me with a 
steady, penetrating gaze, he added, “ Then you haim changed 
your mind I” ; ^ 

“ I can’t say that I have exactly. No; I think I hold the 
same opinion respecting her as before, but slightly ameliorated.” 

“ Oh.” He looked round for something el^ to talk about, 
and glancing up at the moon, made some f^ark upon the 
beauty of the evening, which I did not answer, as being irrele- 
vant to the subject. 

“ Lawrence,” said I, calmly looking him in the face, “ are 
you in love with Mrs. Graham V’ 

Instead of being deeply offended at this, as I more than half 
expected he would, the first start of surprise at the audacious 
question was followed by a tittering laugh, as if he was highly 
amused at the idea. 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


45 


“ I in love with her !” repeated he. “ What makes you 
dream of such a thing 

“ From the interest you take in the progress of my acquaint- 
ance with the lady, and the changes of my opinion concerning 
her, I thought you might be jealous.” 

He laughed again. “ Jealous ! no. But I thought you were 
going to marry Eliza Millward.” 

“ You thought wrong then ; I am not going to marry either 
one or the other, that I know of.” 

“ Then I think you’d better let them alone,” 

“ Are you going to marry Jane Wilson]” 

He colored, and played with the mane again, but answered, 
“ No, I think not.” 

“ Then you had better let her alone.” 

She won’t let me alone, he might have said ; but he only 
looked silly and said nothing for the space of half a minute, 
and then made another attempt to turn the conversation ; and 
this time I let it pass, for he had borne enough ; another word 
on the subject would have been like the last atom that breaks 
the camel’s back. 

I was too late for tea; but my mother had kindly kept the 
tea-pot and muffin warm upon the hobs, and, though she scold- 
ed me a little, readily admitted my excuses ; and when I com- 
plained of the flavor of the over-drawn tea, she poured the re- 
mainder into the slop-basin, and bade Rose put some fi’esh into 
the pot, and reboil the kettle, which offices were performed with 
great commotion, and certain remarkable comments. 

“ Well ! — if it had been me now, I should have had no tea at 
all. If it had been Fergus, even, he would have had to put up 
with such as there was, and been told to be thankful, for it was 
far too good for him ; but you — we can’t do too much for you. 
Tt’s always so — if there’s any thing particularly nice at table, 
mamma winks and nods at me, to abstain from it, and if I don’t 
attend to that, she whispers, ‘ Don’t eat so much of that. Rose, 
Gilbert will like it for his supper.’ — I’m nothing at all — in the 
parlor, it’s ‘ Come Rose, prR away your things, and let us have 
the room nice and tidy against they come in ; and keep up a 
fire; Gilbert likes a cheerful fire.’ In the kitchen — ‘ Make that 
pie a large one. Rose, I dare say the boys’ll be hungry ; and 
don’t put so much pepper in it, they’ll not like it I’m sure ; or, ‘ Rose, 
don’t put so many spices in the pudding, Gilbert likes it plain ;’ 
or, ‘ Mind you put plenty of currants in the cake, Fergus likes 


46 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


plenty.’ If I say, ‘ Well mamma, I don’t,’ I’m told I ought not Uj 
think of myself — ‘ You know Rose, in all household matters, we 
have only two things to consider — first, what’s proper to be done, 
and secondly, what’s most agreeable to the gentlemen of the 
house — any thing will do for the ladies.’ ” 

“ And very good doctrine too,” said my mother. “ Gilbert 
thinks so, I am sure.” 

“ Very convenient doctrine for us, at all events,” said I ; “ but 
if you would really study my pleasure, mother, you must con- 
sider your own comfort and convenience a little more than you 
do — as for Rose, I have no doubt she’ll take care of herself j 
and whenever she does make a sacrifice or perform a remark- 
able act of devotedness, she’ll take good care to let me know 
the extent of it. But for you, I might sink into the grossest 
condition of self-indulgence and carelessness about the wants of 
others, from the mere habit of being constantly cared for myself, 
and having all my wants anticipated or immediately supplied, 
while left in total ignorance of what is done for me — if Rose 
did not enlighten me now and then ; and I should receive all 
your kindness as a matter of course, and never know how much 
I owe you.” 

“ Ah ! and you never will know, Gilbert, till you’re married. 
Then, when you’ve got some trifling, self-conceited girl like 
Eliza Millward, careless of every thing but her own immediate 
pleasure and advantage, or some misguided, obstinate woman 
like Mrs. Graham, ignorant of her principal duties, and clever 
only in what concerns her least to know — then you’ll find the 
diflerence.” 

“ It will do me good, mother ; I was not sent into the world 
merely to exercise the good capacities and good feelings of 
others — was 1 1 — but to exert my own toward them ; and when 
I many, I shall expect to find more pleasure in making my wife 
happy and comfortable, than in being made so by her ; I would 
rather give than receive.” 

“ Oh ! that’s all nonsense, my dear. It’s mere boy’s talk that. 
You’ll soon tire of petting and humoring your wife, be she ever 
so charming, and then comes the trial.” 

“ Well, then, we must'l^ear one another’s burdens.” 

“ Then you must fall each into your proper place. You’ll 
do your business, and she, if she’s worthy of you, will do hers ; 
but it’s your business to please yourself; and hers to please you. 
I’m sure your poor, dear father was as good a husband as ever 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


47 


lived, and after the first six months or so were over, I should as 
soon have expected him to fly, as to put himself out of his way 
to pleasure me. He always said I was a good wife, and did my 
duty ; and he always did his — bless him ! — he was steady and 
punctual, seldom found fault without a reason, always did 
justice to my good dinners, and hardly ever spoiled my cookery 
by delay — and that’s as much as any woman can expect of any 
man.’* 

Is it so, Halford 1 Is that the extent of your domestic virtues ; 
and does your happy wife exact no more ] 


CHAPTER VIH. 

THE EXCURSION. 

m 

Not many days after this, on a mild, sunny morning — rather 
soft under foot; for the last fall of snow was only just wasted 
away, leaving yet a thin ridge, here and there, lingering on the 
fi'esh, green grass beneath the hedges ; but beside them already, 
the young primroses were peeping from among their moist, dark 
foliage, and the lark above was singing of summer, and hope, 
and love, and every heavenly thing — I was out on the hill-side, 
enjoying these delights, and looking after the well-being of my 
young lambs and their mothers, when, on glancing round me, I be- 
held three persons ascending from the vale below. They were 
Eliza Millward, Fergus, and Rose; so I crossed the fields to 
meet them ; and, being told they were going to Wildfell Hall, 
I declared myself willing to go with them, and offering my arm 
to Eliza, who accepted it in lieu of my brother’s, told the latter 
he might go back, for I would accompany the ladies. 

“I beg your pardon!” exclaimed he. — “It’s the ladies that 
are accompanying me, not I them. You had all had a peep at 
this wonderful stranger, but me, and I could endure my wretch- 
ed ignorance no longer — come what would, I must be satisfied 
— so I begged Rose to go with me to the Hall, and introduce 
me to her at once. She swore she would not, unless Miss Eliza 
would go too ; so I ran to the vicarage and fetched her ; and 
we’ve come hooked all the way, as fond as a pair of lovers — and 
now you’ve taken her from me ; and you want to deprive me of 


48 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


my walk and my visit beside. — Go back to your fields and your 
cattle, you lubberly fellow ; you’re not fit to associate with ladies 
and gentlemen, like us, that have nothing to do but to run snook- 
ing about to our neighbors’ houses, peeping into their private 
corners; and scenting out their secrets, and picking holes in their 
coats, when we don’t find them ready made to our hands ; you 
don’t understand such refined sources of enjoyment.” 

“ Can’t you both go I” suggested Eliza, disregarding the lat- 
ter half of the speech. 

“ Yes, both, to be sure !” cried Rose ; “ the more the memei 
— and I’m sure we shall want all the cheerfulness we can cany 
with us to that great, dark, gloomy room, with its naiTOW lat 
ticed windows, and its dismal old furniture — unless she shows 
us into her studio again.” 

So we went all in a body ; and the meager old maid-servant, 
that opened the door, ushered us into an apartment, such as 
Rose had described to me as the scene of her first introduction 
to Mrs. Graham ; a tolerably spacious and lofty »oom, but ob- 
scurely lighted by the old-fashioned windows, the ceiling, panels, 
and chimney-piece of gi’im black oak; the latter elaborately, 
but not very tastefully carved — with tables and chairs to match, 
an old book-case on one side of the fire-place, stocked with a 
motley assemblage of books, and an elderly cabinet piano on 
the other. 

The lady was seated in a stiff, high-backed arm chair, with a 
small, round table, containing a desk and a work basket, on one 
side of her, and her little on the other, who stood leaning 
his elbow on her knee, ana reading to her, with wonderful flu- 
ency, from a small volume that lay in her lap ; while she rested 
her hand on his shoulder, and abstractedly played with the long, 
wavy curls that fell on his ivory neck. They struck me as form- 
ing a pleasing contrast to all the surrounding objects ; but of 
course their position was immediately changed on our entrance 
— I could only observe the picture during the few brief seconds 
that Rachel held the door for our admittance. 

I do not think Mrs. Graham was particularly delighted to see 
us : there was something indescribably chilly in her quiet, calm 
civility ; but I did not talk much to her. Seating myself near 
the window, a little back from the circle, I called Arthur to me, 
and he and I and Sancho amused ourselves very pleasantly to- 
gether, while the two young ladies baited his mother with small 
talk, and Fergus sat opposite, with his legs crossed, and his hands 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


49 


in his breeches pockets, leaning back in his chair, and staring 
now up at the ceiling, now straight forward at his hostess (in a 
manner that made me strongly inclined to kick him out of the 
room), now whistling sotto voce to himself a snatch of a favor- 
ite air, now intermpting the conversation, or filling up a pause 
(as the case might be), with some most impertinent question or 
remark. At one time it was — 

“ It amazes me, Mrs. Graham, how you could choose such 
a dilapidated, rickety old place as this to live in. If you couldn’t 
afford to occupy the whole house, and have it mended up, why 
couldn’t you take a neat little cottage 

“ Perhaps, I was too proud, Mr. Fergus,” replied she, smil- 
ing ; “ perhaps I took a particular fancy for this romantic, old- 
fashioned place — but indeed, it has many advantages over a 
cottage ; in the first place, you see, the rooms are larger and 
more airy ; in the second place, the unoccupied apartments, 
which I don’t pay for, may sei’ve as lumber rooms, if I have 
any thing to put in them ; and they are very useful for my little 
boy to run about in on rainy days when he can’t go out ; and 
then, there is the garden for him to play in, and for me to work 
in. You see I have effected some little improvement already,” 
continued she, turning to the window. “ There is a bed of 
young vegetables in that comer, and here are some snow-drops 
and primroses already in bloom — and there, too, is a yellow 
crocus just opening in the sunshine.” 

“ But then, how can you bear such a situation ; your nearest 
neighbors two miles distant, and nobody looking in or passing 
by ] — Rose would go stark mad in such a place. She can’t put 
on life unless she sees half a dozen fresh gowns and bonnets a 
day — not to speak of the faces within ; but you might sit watch- 
ing at these windows all day long, and never see so much as an 
old woman carrying her eggs to market:” 

“ I am not sure the loneliness of the place was not one of its 
chief recommendations. I take no pleasure in watching people 
pass the windows ; and I like to be quiet.” 

“ Oh ! as good as to say, you wish we would all of us mind 
our own business, and let you alone.” 

“No, I dislike an extensive acquaintance; but if I have a 
few friends, of course I am glad to see them occasionally. No 
one can be happy in eternal solitude. Therefore, Mr. Fergus, 
if you choose to enter my house as a friend, I will make you 
welcome ; if not, I must confess, I would rather you kept away.’ 


50 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


She then turned, and addressed some observation to Rose or 
Eliza. 

“ And, Mrs. Graham,” said he again, five minutes after, “ we 
were disputing, as we came along, a question that you can 
readily decide for us, as it mainly regarded yourself — and, in- 
deed, we often hold discussions about you ; for some of us have 
nothing better to do than to talk about our neighbors’ concerns, 
and we, the indigenous plants of the soil, have known each other 
so long, and talked each other over so often, that we are quite 
sick of that game ; so that a stranger coming among us makes 
an invaluable addition to our exhausted sources of amusement. 
Well, the question, or questions, you are requested to solve — ” 

“ Hold your tongue I” cried Rose, in a fever of apprehension 
and wrath. 

“ I won’t, I tell you. The questions you are requested to 
solve are these ; — First, concerning your birth, extraction, and 
previous r*esidence. Some will have it that you are a foreigner, 
and some an Englishwoman : some a native of the north coun- 
try, and some of the south : some say — ” 

“ Well, Mr. Fergus, I’ll tell you. I’m an Englishwoman — 
and I don’t see why any one should doubt it — and I was born 
in the country, neither in the extreme north nor south of our 
happy isle ; and in the country I have chiefly passed my life, 
and now, I hope, you are satisfied ; for I am not disposed to an- 
swer any more questions at present.” 

“ Except this — ” 

“ No, not one more !” laughed she, and instantly quitting her 
seat, she sought refuge at the window by which I was seated, 
and, in very desperation, to escape my brother’s persecutions, 
endeavored to draw me into conversation. 

“Mr. Markham,” said she, her rapid utterance and heightened 
color too plainly evincing her disquietude ; “ have you forgotten 
the fine sea view we were speaking of some time ago 1 I think 
I must trouble you, now, to tell me the nearest . way to it ; for 
if this beautiful weather continue, I shall, perhaps, be able to 
walk there, and take my sketch ; I have exhausted every other 
^ subject for painting, and I long to see it.” 

I was about to comply with her request, but Rose would not 
suffer me to proceed. 

“ Oh, don’t tell her, Gilbert !” cried she ; “she shall go with 

us. It’s Rti^y you are thinking about, I suppose, Mrs. 

Graham. It is a very long walk — too far for you, and out of the 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


51 


question for Arthur. But we were thinking about making a pic- 
nic to see it, some fine day ; and, if you will wait till the settled 
fine weather comes, I’m sure we shall all be delighted to have 
you among us.” 

Poor Mrs. Graham looked dismayed, and attempted to make 
excuses ; but Rose, either compassionating her lonely life, or 
anxious to cultivate her acquaintance, was determined to have 
her ; and every objection was overruled. She was told it would 
only be a small party, and all friends, and that the best view of 
all was from Cliffs, full five miles distant. 

“ Just a nice walk for the gentlemen,” continued Rose; “ but 
the ladies will drive and walk by turns ; for we shall have our 
pony-carriage, which will be plenty large enough to contain 
little Arthur and three ladies, together with your sketching ap- 
paratus, and our provisions.” 

So the proposal was finally acceded to ; and, after some 
further discussion respecting the time and manner of the pro- 
jected excursion, we rose, and took our leave. 

But this was only March ; a cold, wet April, and two weeks 
of May, passed over before we could venture forth on our expe- 
dition with the reasonable hope of obtaining that pleasure we 
sought in pleasant prospects, cheerful society, fresh air, good 
cheer, and exercise, without the alloy of bad roads, cold winds, 
or threatening clouds. Then, on a glorious morning, we gathered 
our forces and set forth. The company consisted of Mrs. and 
Master Graham, Mary and Eliza Millward, Jane and Richard 
Wilson, and Rose, Fergus, and Gilbert Markham. 

Mr. Lawrence had been invited to join us, but, for some rea- 
son best known to himself, had refused to give us his company. 
T had solicited the favor myself. When I did so, he hesitated, 
and asked who were going. Upon my naming Miss Wilson 
among the rest, he seemed half inclined to go, but when I men- 
tioned Mrs. Graham, thinking it might be a further inducement, 
it appeared to have a contrary effect, and he declined it alto- 
gether ; and, to confess the truth, the decision was not displeasing 
to me, though I could scarcely tell you why. 

It was about mid-day when we reached the place of our des- 
tination. Mrs. Graham walked all the way to the cliffs ; and 
little Arthur walked the greater part of it, too ; for he was now 
much more hardy and active than when he first entered the 
neighborhood, and he did not like being in the carriage with 
strangers, while all his four friends, mamma, and Sancho, and 


52 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


Mr. Markham, and Miss Millward, were on foot, journeying far 
behind, or passing through distant fields and lanes. 

1 have a very pleasant recollection of that walk, along the 
hard, white, sunny road, shaded here and there with bright, 
green trees, and adorned with flowery banks and blossoming 
hedges of delicious fragrance ; or through pleasant fields and 
lanes, all glorious in the sweet flowers, and brilliant verdure of 
delightful May. It was true, Eliza was not beside me ; but she 
was with her friends in the pony-carriage, as happy, I trusted, 
as 1 was ; and even when we pedestrians, having forsaken the 
highway for a short cut across the fields, beheld the little carriage 
far away, disappearing amid the green, embowering trees, I did 
not hate those trees for snatching the dear little bonnet and shawl 
from my sight, nor did I feel that all those intervening objects 
lay between my happiness and me ; for, to confess the truth, I 
was too happy in the company of Mrs. Graham to regret the 
absence of Eliza Millward. 

The former, it is true, was most provokingly unsociable at 
first — seemingly bent upon talking to no one but Maiy Mill- 
ward and Arthur. She and Mary journeyed along together, 
generally with the child between them ; but where the road 
permitted, I always walked on the other side of her, Richard 
Wilson, taking the other side of Miss Millward, and Fergus 
roving here and there according to his fancy ; and after a while, 
she became more friendly, and at length I succeeded in se- 
curing her attention almost entirely to myself — and then I was 
happy indeed ; for whenever she did condescend to converse, I 
liked to listen. Where her opinions and sentiments tallied 
with mine, it was her extreme good sense, her exquisite taste 
and feeling that delighted me ; where they differed, it was still 
her uncompromising boldness in the avowal or defense of that 
difference — her earnestness and keenness that piqued my fancy : 
and even when she angered me by her unkind words or looks, 
and her uncharitable conclusions respecting me, it only made 
me the more dissatisfied with myself for having so unfavorably 
impressed her, and the more desirous to vindicate my character 
and disposition in her eyes, and, if possible, to win her esteem. 

At length our walk was ended. The increasing height and 
boldness of the hills had for some time intercepted the pros- 
pect ; but, on gaining the summit of a steep acclivity, and look- 
ing downward, an opening lay before us — and the blue sea 
burst upon our sight ! deep violet blue — not deadly calm, but 


THE TENANT OF VVILDFELL HALL. 


53 


covered with glinting breakers — diminutive white specks twink- 
ling on its bosom, and scarcely to be distinguished by the keen- 
est vision, from the little sea-mews that sported above, their 
white wings glittering in the sunshine : only one or two ves- 
sels were visible ; and those were far away. 

I looked at my companion to see what she thought of this 
glorious scene. She said nothing : but she stood still, and fixed 
her eyes upon it, with a gaze that assured me she was not dis- 
appointed. She had very fine eyes, by-the-by — I don’t know 
whether I’ve told you before, but they were full of soul, large, 
clear, and nearly black — ^not brown, but very dark gray. A 
cool, reviving breeze blew from the sea — soft, pure, salubrious : 
it waved her drooping nnglets, and imparted a livelier color to 
her usually too pallid lip and cheek. She felt its exhilarating 
influence, and so did I — I felt it tingling through my frame, but 
dared not give way to it w^hile she remained so quiet. There 
was an aspect of subdued exhilaration in her face, that kindled 
into almost a smile of exalted, glad intelligence as her eye met 
mine. Never had she looked so lovely ; never had my heart so 
warmly cleaved to her as now. Had we been left two minutes 
longer, standing there alone, I can not answer for the conse- 
quences. Happily for my discretion, perhaps for my enjoy- 
ment during the remainder of the day, we were speedily sum- 
moned to the repast — a very respectable collation, which Rose, 
assisted by Miss Wilson and Eliza, who, having shared her 
seat in the carriage, had arrived with her a little before the 
rest, had set out upon an elevated platform overlooking the sea, 
and sheltered from the hot sun by a shelving rock and over- 
hanging trees. 

Mrs. Graham seated herself at a distance from me. Eliza 
was my nearest neighbor. She exerted herself to be agreeable, 
in her gentle, unobtrusive way, and was, no doubt, as fasci- 
nating and charming as ever, if I could only have felt it. But 
soon my heart began to warm toward her once again ; and we 
were all very merry and happy together — as far as I could 
see — throughout the protracted, social meal. 

When that was over. Rose summoned Fergus to help her to 
gather up the fragments, and the knives, dishes, &c., and restore 
them to the baskets; and Mrs. Graham took her camp-stool 
and drawing materials, and having begged Miss Millward to 
take charge of her precious son, and strictly enjoined him not 
to wander from his new guardian’s side, she left us and pro- 


54 


THE TENANT OF VVILDFELL HALL. 


ceeded along the steep, stony hill, to a loftier, more precipitous 
eminence at some distance, whence a still finer prospect was to 
be had, where she preferred taking her sketch, though some of 
the ladies told her it was a frightful place, and advised her not 
to attempt it. 

When she was gonje, I felt as if there was to be no more 
fun — though it is difficult to say what she had contributed to 
the hilarity of the party. No jests, and little laughter, had es- 
caped her lips ; but her smile had animated my mirth, a keen 
observation or a cheerful word from her had insensibly sharp- 
ened my wits, and thrown an interest over all that was done 
and said by the rest. Even my conversation with Eliza had 
been enlivened by her presence, though I knew it not; and 
now that she was gone, Eliza’s playful nonsense ceased to 
amuse me — nay, grew wearisome to my soul, and I grew 
weary of amusing her; I felt myself drawn by an irresistible 
attraction to that distant point where the fair artist sat and plied 
her solitary task — and not long did I attempt to resist it : while 
my little neighbor was exchanging a few words with Miss Wil- 
son, I rose and cannily slipped away. A few rapid strides, and a 
little active clambering, soon brought me to the place where she 
was seated — a narrow ledge of rock at the very verge of the 
cliff, which descended with a steep, precipitous slant, quite 
down to the rocky shore. 

She did not hear me coming : the falling of my shadow 
across her paper, gave her an electric start; and she looked 
hastily round — any other lady of my acquaintance would have 
screamed under such a sudden alarm. 

“ Oh ! I didn’t know it was you. Why did you startle me 
so said she, somewhat testily, “ I hate any body to come 
upon me so unexpectedly.” 

“ Why, what did you take me fori” said I, “if I had knowm 
you were so nervous, I would have been more cautious — ” 

“Well, never mind. What did you come fori are they all 
coming 1” 

“ No ; this little ledge could scarcely contain them all.” 

“ I’m glad, for I’m tired of talking.” 

“Well, then, I won’t talk. I’il only sit and watch your 
drawing.” 

“ Oh, but you know I don’t like that.” 

“ Then I’ll content myself with admiring this magnificent 
prospect.” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


55 


She made no objection to this ; and, for some time, sketched 
away in silence. But I could not help stealing a glance, now 
and then, from the splendid view at our feet to the elegant 
white hand that held the pencil, and the graceful neck and 
glossy raven curls that drooped over the paper. 

“Now,” thought I, “if 1 had but a pencil and a morsel of 
paper, I could make a lovelier sketch than hers, admitting I 
had the power to delineate faithfully what is before me.” 

But though this satisfaction was denied me, I was very well 
content to sit beside her there, and say nothing. 

“ Are you there still, Mr. Markham said she at length, 
looking round upon me — for I was seated a little behind, on a 
mossy projection of the cliff. “ Why don’t you go and amuse 
yourself with your friends 

“Because I am tired of them, like you; and I shall have 
enough of them to-morrow — or at any time hence ; but you, I 
may not have the pleasure of seeing again for I know not how 
long.” 

“ What was Arthur doing when you came away I” 

“ He was with Miss Mill ward where you left him — all right, 
but hoping mamma would not be long away. You didn’t 
intrust him to me, by-the-by,” I grumbled, “ though I had the 
honor of a much longer acquaintance ; but Miss Millward has 
the art of conciliating and amusing children,” I carelessly added, 
“ if she is good for nothing else.” 

“ Miss Millward has many estimable qualities, which such as 
you can not be expected to perceive or appreciate. Will you 
tell Arthur that I shall come in a few minutes I” 

“ If that be the case, I will wait, with your permission, till 
those few minutes are past ; and then I can assist you to descend 
this difficult path.” 

“ Thank you — I always manage best, on such occasions, 
without assistance.” 

“ But, at least, I can carry your stool and sketch-book.” 

She did not deny me this favor ; but I was rather offended at 
her evident desire to be rid of me, anfl was beginning to repent 
of my pertinacity, when she somewhat appeased me by consult- 
ing my taste and judgment about some doubtful matter in her 
drawing. My opinion, happily, met her approbation, and the 
improvement I suggested was adopted without hesitation. 

“ I have often wished in vain,” said she, “for another’s judg- 
ment to appeal to when I could scarcely trust the direction of 


56 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


my own eye and head, they having been so long occupied with 
the contemplation of a single object, as to become almost inca 
pable of forming a proper idea respecting it.” 

“ That,” replied I, “ is only one of many evils to which a soli 
tary life exposes us.” 

“ True,” said she ; and again we relapsed into silence. 

About two minutes after, however, she declared her sketch 
completed, and closed the book. 

On returning to the scene of our repast, we found all the 
company had deserted it, with the exception of three — Mary 
Millward, Richard Wilson, and Arthur Graham. The younger 
gentleman lay fast asleep with his head pillowed on the lady’s 
lap ; the other was seated beside her with a pocket edition of 
some classic author in his hand. He never went any where 
without such a companion wherewith to improve his leisure 
moments : all time seemed lost that was not devoted to study, 
or exacted, by his physical nature, for the bare support of life. 
Even now, he could not abandon himself to the enjoyment of 
that pure air and balmy sunshine — that splendid prospect, and 
those soothing sounds, the music of the waves and of the soft 
wind in the sheltering trees above him — not even w'ith the lady 
by his side (though not a very charming one, I will allow) — he 
must pull out his book, and make the most of his time while 
digesting his temperate meal, and reposing his weary limbs, 
unused to so much exercise. 

Perhaps, however, he spared a moment to exchange a word 
or a glance with his companion now and then — at any rate, she 
did not appear at all resentful of his conduct ; for her homely 
features wore an expression of unusual cheerfulness and seren- 
ity, and she was studying his pale, thoughtful face with great 
complacency when we arrived. 

The journey homeward was by no means so agreeable, to 
me, as the former part of the day ; for now Mrs. Graham was 
in the carriage, and Eliza Millward was the companion of my 
walk. She had observed my preference for the young widow, 
and evidently felt herself heglected. She did not manifest her 
chagrin by keen reproaches, bitter sarcasms, or pouting, sullen 
silence — any or ail of these I could easily have endured, or 
lightly laughed away; but she showed it by a kind of gentle 
melancholy, a mild, reproachful sadness that cut me to the heart. 
I tried to cheer her up, and apparently succeeded in some 
degree, before the walk was over ; but in the very act my con- 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


57 


science reproved me, knowing, as I did, that, sooner or later, 
the tie must be broken, and this was only nourishing false hopes, 
and putting off the evil day. 

When the pony-carriage had approached as near Wildfell 
Hall as the road would permit — unless, indeed, it proceeded up 
the long rough lane, which Mrs. Graham would not allow — the 
young widow and her son alighted, relinquishing the driver’s 
seat to Rose ; and I persuaded Eliza to take the latter’s place. 
Having put her comfortably in, bid her take care of the even- 
ing air, and wished her a kind good-night, I felt considerably 
relieved, and hastened to offer my services to Mrs. Graham to 
caiTy her apparatus up the fields, but she had already hung her 
camp-stool on her arm and taken her sketch-book in her hand ; 
and insisted upon bidding me adieu, then and there, with the 
rest of the company. But this time, she declined my proffered 
aid in so kind and fiiendly a manner, that I almost forgave her. 


CHAPTER VHI. 

THE PRESENT. 

Six weeks had past away. It was a splendid morning about 
the close of June. Most of the hay was cut, but the last week 
had been very unfavorable ; and now that fine weather was 
come at last, being determined to make the most of it, I had ga- 
thered all hands together into the hayfield, and was working 
away myself, in the midst of them, in my shirt sleeves, with a 
light, shady straw hat on my head, catching up armfuls of moist, 
reeking grass, and shaking it out to the four winds of heaven, 
at the head of a goodly file of servants and hirelings — intending 
so to labor, from morning to night, with as much zeal and as- 
siduity as I could look for from any of them, as well to prosper 
the work by my own exertion as to animate the v/orkera by my 
example — when, lo ! my resolutions were overthrown in a mo- 
ment, by the simple fact of my brother’s running up to me and 
putting into my hand a small parcel, just arrived from London, 
which I had been for some time expecting. I tore off the cover, 
and disclosed an elegant and portable edition of “ Marmion.” 

“ I guess, I know who that’s for,” said Fergus, who stood 

c* 


58 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


looking on while I complacently examined the volume. “ That’s 
for Miss Eliza, now.” 

He pronounced this with a tone and look so prodigiously 
knowing, that I was glad to contradict him. 

“ You’re wrong my lad,” said I ; and taking up my coat, 1 
deposited the book in one of its pockets, and then put it on (i. e 
the coat). “ Now come here, you idle dog, and make yourseli 
useful for once,” I continued. “ Pull off your coat, and take 
my place in the field till I come back.” 

“ Till you come back — and where are you going, pray ]” 

“No matter — ivhere — the when is all that concerns you — and 
I shall be back by dinner, at least.” 

“ Oh, ho ! and I’m to labor away till then, am I — and to keep 
all these fellows hard at it besides 1 — Well, well ! I’ll submit — 
for once in a way. Come, my lads, you must look sharp : I’m 
coming to help you now ; and wo be to that man, or woman 
either, that pauses for a moment among you — whether to 
stare about him, to scratch his head, or blow his nose — no pre- 
text will serve — nothing but work, work, work, in the sweat of 
your face,” &c. &c. 

Leaving him thus haranguing the people, more to their 
amusement than edification, 1 returned to the house, and having 
made some alteration in my toilet, hastened away to Wildfell 
Hall, with the book in my pocket ; for it was destined for the 
shelves of Mrs. Graham. 

“ What, then, had she and you got on so well together as to 
come to the giving and receiving of presents'?” Not precisely, 
old buck ; this was my first experiment in that line ; and I was 
very anxious to see the result of it. 

We had met several times since the Bay excursion, and 

I had found she was not averse to my company, provided I 
confined my conversation to the discussion of abstract matters, 
or topics of common interest ; the moment I touched upon the 
sentimental or the complimentary, or made the slightest approach 
to tenderness in word or look, I was not only punished by an 
immediate change in her manner at the time, but doomed to 
find her more cold and distant, if not entirely inaccessible, when 
next I sought her company. This circumstance did not greatly 
disconcert me, however, because, I attributed it, not so much 
to any dislike of my person, as to some absolute resolution 
against a second marriage, formed prior to the time of our ac- 
quaintance, whether from excess of affection for her late husband. 


THK TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


59 


or because she had had enough of him and the matrimonial statQ 
together. At first, indeed, she had seemed to take 'a pleasure 
in mortifying my vanity and crushing my presumption — relent- 
lessly nipping off bud by bud, as they ventured to appear ; and 
then, I confess, I was deeply wounded, though, at the same 
time, stimulated to seek revenge ; — but latterly, finding, beyond 
a doubt, that I was not that empty-headed coxcomb she had first 
supposed me, she had repulsed my modest advances in quite a 
different spirit. It was a kind of serious, almost sorrowful dis- 
pleasure, which I soon learned carefully to avoid awakening. 

“ Let me first establish my position as a friend,” thought I — 
“ the patron and playfellow of her son,’ the sober, solid, plain- 
dealing friend of herself, and then, when^ I have made myself 
fairly necessary to her comfort and enjoyment in life (as I be- 
lieve I can), we will see what next may be effected.” 

So we talked about painting, poetry, and music, theology, 
geology, and philosophy ; once or twice I lent her a book, and 
once she lent me one in return. I met her in her walks as often 
as I could ; I came to her house as often as I dared. My first 
pretext for invading the sanctum, was to bring Arthur a little 
waddling puppy of which Sancho was the father, and which 
delighted the child beyond expression, and, consequently, could 
not fail to please his mamma. My second was to bring him a 
book, which, knowing his mother’s particularity, I had carefully 
selected, and which I submitted for her approbation before 
presenting it to him. Then I brought her some plants for her 
garden, in my sister’s name — having previously persuaded Rose 
to send them. Each of these times I inquired after the picture 
she was painting from the sketch taken on the cliff, and was 
admitted into the studio, and asked my opinion or advice respect- 
ing its progress. 

My last visit had been to return the book she had lent me : 
and then it was, that, in casually discussing the poetry of Sir 
Walter Scott, she had expressed a wish to see “ Marmion,” and 
I had conceived the presumptuous idea of making her a present 
of it, and, on my return home, instantly sent for the smart little 
volume I had this morning received. But an apology for invad- 
ing the hermitage was still necessary ; so I had furnished myself 
with a blue morocco collar for Arthur’s little dog; and that 
being given and received, with much more joy and gratitude, 
on the part of the receiver, than the worth of the gift, or the 
selfish n otive of the giver deserved, I ventured to ask Mrs. 


60 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


Graham for one more look at the picture, if it was still 
there. 

“ Oh yes ! come in,” said she (for I had met them in the gar- 
den). “It is finished and framed, all ready for sending away ; 
but give me your last opinion, and, if you can suggest any 
further improvement, it shall be — duly considered, at least.” 

The picture was strikingly beautiful. It was the very scene 
itself, transferred as if by magic to the canvas ; but I expressed 
my approbation in guarded terms, and few words, for fear of 
displeasing her. She, however, attentively watched my looks, 
and her artist’s pride was gratified, no doubt, to read my heart- 
felt admiration in my eyes. But, while I gazed, I thought upon 
the book, and wondered how it was to be presented. My heart 
failed me ; but I determined not to be such a fool as to come 
away without having made the attempt. It was useless waiting 
for an opportunity, and useless trying to concoct a speech for the 
occasion. The more plainly and naturally the thing was done, 
the better, I thought ; so I just looked out of the window to 
screw up my courage, and then pulled out the book, turned 
round, and put it into her hand, with this short explanation — 

“You were wishing to see ‘ Marmion,’ Mrs. Graham; and 
here it is, if you will be so kind as to take it.” 

A momentary flush suffused her face — perhaps a blush of 
s^impathetic shame for such an awkward style of presentation. 
She gravely examined the volume on both sides ; then silently 
turned over the leaves, knitting her brows the while, in serious 
cogitation ; then closed the book, and, tuniing from it to me, 
quietly asked the price of it. I felt the hot blood rush to my face. 

“ I’m sorry to offend you, Mr. Markham,” said she ; “ but 
unless I pay for the book, I can not take it.” And she laid it on 
the table. 

“ Why can not you T’ 

“ Because ” — she paused, and looked at the carpet. 

“ Why can not you ]” I repeated, with a degi'ee of irascibil- 
ity that roused her to lift her eyes, and look me steadily in the face. 

“ Because I don’t like to put myself under obligations that I 
can never repay. I am obliged to you already, for your kindness 
to my son ; but his grateful affection, and your own good feelings 
must reward you for that.” 

“ Nonsense !” ejaculated I. 

She turned her eyes on me again, with a look of quiet, grave 
surprise, that had the effect of rebuke, whether so intended or not. 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


6 ] 


“ Then you won’t take the book ]” I asked, more mildly than 
I had yet spoken. 

“ I will gladly take it, if you will let me pay for it.” 

I told her the exact price, and the cost of the carriage besides, 
in as calm a tone as I could command — for, in fact, I was ready 
to weep with disappointment and vexation. 

She produced her purse, and coolly counted out the money, 
but hesitated to put it into my hand. Attentively regarding me, 
in a tone of soothing softness, she observed — 

“ You think yourself insulted, Mr. Markham — I wish I could 
make you understand tnat — that I ” 

“ I do understand you, perfectly,” I said. “ You think that 
if you were to accept that tiifle from me now, I should presume 
upon it hereafter; but you are mistaken. If you will only oblige 
me by taking it, believe me, I shall build no hopes upon it, and 
consider this no precedent for future favors ; and it is nonsense 
to talk about putting yourself under obligations to me, when you 
must know that in such a case the obligation is entirely on my 
side — the favor on yours.” 

“Well then I’ll take you at your word,” she answered with 
a most angelic smile, returning the odious money to her purse — 
“ but rcmemher 

“ I will remember — what I have said ; but do not you punish 
my presumption by withdrawing your friendship entirely from 
me — or expect me to atone for it by being more distant than 
before,” said I, extending my hand to take leave, for I was too 
much excited to remain. 

“Well then! let us be as we were,” replied she, frankly 
placing her hand in mine ; and while I held it there, I had much 
difficulty to refrain from pressing it to my lips ; but that would 
be suicidal madness ; I had been bold enough already, and this 
premature offering had well nigh given the death-blow to my 
hopes. 

It was with an agitated, burning heart and brain that I hur- 
ried homeward, regardless of the scorching noon-day sun — 
forgetful of every thing but her I had just left — regi’etting 
nothing but her impenetrability, and my own precipitancy and 
want of tact — fearing nothing but her hateful resolution, and 
my inability to overcome it — hoping nothing — but halt — I wall 
not bore you with my conflicting hopes and fears — my serious 
cogitations and resolves. 


CHAPTER IX. 

A SNAKE IN THE GRASS. 

Though my affections might now be said to be fairly weaned 
from Eliza Millward, I did not yet entirely relinquish my visits 
to the vicarage, because I wanted, as it were, to let her down 
easy ; without raising much sorrow, or incurring much resent- 
ment — or making myself the talk of the parish; and besides, if 
I had v/holly kept away, the vicar, who looked upon my visits 
as paid chiefly, if not entirely to himself, would have felt him- 
self decidedly affronted by the neglect. But when I called there 
the day after my interview with Mrs. Graham, he happened 
to be from home — a circumstance by no means so agi*eeable to 
me now as it had been on former occasions. Miss Millward 
was there, it is true, but she, of course, would be little better 
than a nonentity. However, I resolved to make my visit a 
short one, and to talk to Eliza in a brotherly, friendly sort of 
way, such as our long acquaintance might warrant me in 
assuming, and which, I thought, could neither give offense nor 
serve to encourage false hopes. 

It was never my custom to talk about Mrs. Graham either 
to her or any one else ; but I had not been seated three minutes, 
before she brought that lady on the carpet herself, in a rather 
remarkable manner. 

“ Oh, Mr. Markham !” said she, with a shocked expression, 
and voice subdued almost to a whisper — “ what do you think 
of these shocking reports about Mrs. Graham % can you encour- 
age us to disbelieve them '1” 

“ What reports 

“ Ah, now ! you know !” she slyly smiled and shook her head. 

“ I know nothing about them. — What in the world do you 
mean, Eliza V' 

“ Oh, don’t ask me ! I can’t explain it.” She took up the 
cambric handkerchief which she had been beautifying with a 
deep lace border, and began to be very busy. 

“ What is it. Miss Millward ] what does she mean T’ said I, 
appealing to her sister, who seemed to be absorbed in the 
hemming of a large, coarse sheet. 

“ I don’t know,” replied she. — “ Some idle * slander, some- 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


63 


body has been inventing, I suppose. I never heard it till Eliza 
told me, the other day; but if all the parish dinned it in my 
ears, I shouldn’t believe a word of it — I know Mrs. Graham 
too well !” 

“ Quite right, Miss Millward ! and so do I — whatever it may 
be.” 

- “ Well !” observed Eliza, with a gentle sigh, “ It’s well to 

have such a comfortable assurance regarding the' worth of those 
we love. I only wish you may not find your confidence mis- 
placed.” 

And she raised her face, and gave me such a look of soitow- 
ful tenderness as might have melted my heart, but within those 
eyes there lurked a something that I did not like ; and I won- 
dered how I ever could have admired them : her sister’s honest 
face and small gray optics appeared far more agreeable ; 
but I was out of temper with Eliza, at that moment, for her 
insinuations against Mrs. Graham — which were false, I was 
certain, whether she knew it or not. 

I said nothing more on the subject, however, at the time, 
and but little on any other ; for finding I could not well recover 
my equanimity, I presently rose and took leave, excusing 
myself under the plea of business at the farm ; — and to the 
farm I went — not troubling my mind one whit about the 
possible truth of these mysterious reports, but only wondering 
what they were, by whom originated, and on what foundations 
raised, and how they could the most effectually be silenced 
Nor disproved. 

A few days after this, we had another of our quiet little 
parties, to which the usual company of friends and neighbors 
had been invited, and Mrs. Graham among the number. She 
could not now absent herself under the plea of dark evenings 
or inclement weather, and, greatly to my relief, she came. 
Without her I should have found the whole affair an intolerable 
bore ; but the moment of her arrival brought new life to the 
house ; and though I must not neglect the other guests for her, 
or expect to engross much of her attention and conversation to 
myself alone, I anticipated an evening of no common enjoy- 
ment. 

Mr. Lawrence came too. He did not arrive till some time 
after the rest were assembled. I was curious to see how he 
would comport himself to Mrs. Graham. A slight bow was all 
that passed between them on his entrance ; and having politely 


64 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


greeted the other members of the company ; he seated himself 
quite aloof from the young widow, between my mother and 
Rose. 

“ Did you ever see such art V’ whispered Eliza, who was 
my nearest neighbor. “Would you not say they were perfect 
strangers 

“ Almost ; but what then ^ 

“ What then ! why you can’t pretend to be ignorant !” 

“ Ignorant of what demanded I, so sharply that she started 
and replied — 

“ Oh, hush ! don’t speak so loud.” 

“ Well, tell me, then,” I answered, in a lower tone ; “ what 
is it you mean I hate enigmas.” 

“ Well, you know, I don’t vouch for the truth of it — indeed, 
far from it — but haven’t you heard — ” 

“ I’ve heard nothing, except from you.” 

“ You must be willfully deaf, then ; for any one will tell you 
that — but I shall only anger you by repeating it, I see ; so I 
had better hold my tongue.” 

She closed her lips and folded her hands before her, with an 
air of injured meekness. 

“ If you had wished not to anger me, you should have held 
your tongue fi’om the beginning; or else spoken out. plainly 
and honestly all you had to say.” 

She turned aside her face, pulled out her handkerchief, rose, 
and went to the window, where she stood for some time, evi- 
dently dissolved in tears. I was astounded, provoked, ashamed 
— not so much of my harshness as for her childish weakness. 
However, no one seemed to notice her, and shortly after we 
were summoned to the tea-table ; in those parts it was custom- 
ary to sit to the table at tea-time, on all occasions, and make a 
meal of it, for we dined early. On taking my seat, I had Rose 
on one side of me, and an empty chair on the other. 

“ May I sit by you V' said a soft voice at my elbow. 

“ If you like,” was the reply ; and Eliza slipped into the 
vacant chair ; then looking up in my face with a half sad, half 
playful smile, she whispered — 

“ You’re so stern, Gilbert.” 

I handed down her tea with a slightly contemptuous smile, 
and said nothing, for I had nothing to say. 

“ What have I done to offend you ?” said she, more plaintively. 
“ I wish I knew.” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


C5 


“ Come, take your tea, Eliza, and don’t be foolish,” responded 
I, handing her the sugar and cream. 

Just then there arose a slight commotion on the other side 
of me, occasioned by Miss Wilson’s coming to negotiate an 
exchange of seats with Rose. 

“ Will you be so good as to exchange places with me. Miss 
Markham 1” said she, “ for I don’t like to sit by Mrs. Graham. 
If your mamma thinks proper to invite such persons to her 
house, she can not object to her daughter’s keeping company 
with them.” 

This latter clause was added in a sort of soliloquy when Rose 
was gone ; but I was not polite enough to let it pass. 

“ Will you be so good as to tell me what you mean. Miss 
Wilson said I. 

The question startled her a little, but not much. 

“ Why, Mr. Markham,” replied she, coolly, having quickly 
recovered her self-possession, “ it surprises me rather that Mrs. 
Markham should invite such a person as Mrs. Graham to her 
house ; but, perhaps, she is not aware that the lady’s character 
is considered scarcely respectable.” 

“ She is not, nor am I ; and therefore you will oblige me by 
explaining your meaning a little further.” 

“ This is scarcely the time or the place for such explanations ; 
but I think you can hardly be so ignorant as you pretend ; you 
must know her as well as I do.” 

“ I think I do, perhaps a little better ; and therefore, if you 
will inform me what you have heard or imagined against her, I 
shall, perhaps, be able to set you right.” 

“ Can you tell me, then, who was her husband ; or if she 
ever had any I” 

Indignation kept me silent. At such a time and place I 
could not trust myself to answer. 

“ Have you never observed,” said Eliza, “ what a striking 
likeness there is between that child of hers and — ” 

“ And whom demanded Miss Wilson, with an air of cold, 
but keen severity. 

Eliza was startled ; the timidly-spoken suggestion had been 
intended for my ear alone. 

“ Oh, I beg your pardon !” pleaded she, “ I may be mistaken 
— perhaps I was mistaken. But she accompanied the words 
with a sly glance of derision, directed to me from the corner of 
her disingenuous eye. 


66 


THE TENANT OF VVILDFEI.L HALL. 


“ There’s ru) need to ask my pardon,” replied her friend ; 
“ but I see no one here that at all resembles that child, except 
his mother ; and when you hear ill-natured reports. Miss Eliza, 
I will thank you — that is, I think you will do well to refrain 
from repeating them. I presume the person you allude to is 
Mr. Lawrence ; but I think I can assure you that your suspicions 
in that respect are utterly misplaced ; and if he has any par- 
ticular connection with the lady at all (which no one has a right 
to assert), at least he has (which can not be said of some others) 
sufficient sense of propriety to withhold him from acknowledging 
any thing more than a bowing acquaintance in the presence of 
respectable persons ; he is evidently both slirprised and annoyed 
to find her here.” 

“ Go it !” cried Fergus, who sat on the other side of Eliza, 
and was the only individual who shared that side of the table 
with us ; “ go it like bricks ! mind you don’t leave her one 
stone upon another.” 

Miss Wilson drew herself up with a look of freezing scorn, 
but said nothing. Eliza would have replied, but I interrupted 
her by saying, as calmly as I could, though in a tone which 
betrayed, no doubt, some little of what I felt within — 

“We have had enough of this subject. If we can only speak 
to slander our betters, let us hold our tongues.” 

“ I think you’d better,” observed Fergus; “ and so does our 
good parson ; he has been addressing the company in his richest 
vein all the while, and eyeing you, from time to time, with looks 
of stern distaste, while you sat there irreverently whispering 
and muttering together; and once he paused in the middle of a 
story — or a sermon, I don’t know which — and fixed his eyes 
upon you, Gilbert, as much as to say, ‘When Mr. Markham 
has done flirting with those two ladies I will proceed.’ ” 

What more was sffid at the tea-table I can not tell, nor how 
I found patience to sit till the meal was over. I remember, 
however, that I swallowed with difficulty the remainder of the 
tea that was in my cup, and ate nothing, and that the first thing 
I did was to stare at Arthur Graham, who sat beside his mother 
on the opposite side of the table, and the second to stare at 
Mr. Lawrence, who sat below. And, first, it struck me that 
there was a likeness, but on further contemplation, I con- 
cluded it was only in imagination. Both, it is true, had more 
delicate features and smaller bones than commonly fall to the 
lot of individuals of the rougher sex, and Lawrence’s com- 


TflK TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


67 


plexion was pale and clear, and Arthur’s delicately fair; but 
Arthur’s tiny, somewhat snubby nose could never become so 
long and straight , as Mr. Lawrence’s,, and the outline of his 
face, though not full enough to be round, and too finely con- 
verging to the small, dimpled chin to be square, could never be 
drawn out to the long oval of the other’s, while the child’s hair 
was evidently of a lighter, wanner tint than the elder gentle- 
man’s had ever been, and his large, clear, blue eyes, though 
prematurely serious at times, were utterly dissimilar to the shy 
hazel eyes of Mr. Lawrence, whence the sensitive soul looked 
so distrustfully forth, as ever ready to retire within from the 
offenses of a too rude, too uncongenial world. Wretch that I 
was, to harbor that detestable idea for a moment ! Did I not 
know Mrs. Graham 1 Had I not seen her, conversed with her, 
time after time] Was I not certain that she, in intellect, in 
purity and elevation of soul, was immeasurably superior to any 
of her detractors, that she was, in fact, the noblest, the most 
adorable, of her sex I had ever beheld, or even imagined to 
exist ] Yes, and I would say with Mary Mill ward (sensible 
girl as she w’as), that if all the parish, ay, or all the world, 
should din these horrible lies in my ears, I would not believe 
them, for I knew her better than they. 

Meantime, my brain was on fire with indignation, and my 
heart seemed ready to burst from its prison with conflicting 
passions. I regarded my two fair neighbors with a feeling of 
abhorrence and loathing I scarcely endeavored to conceal. I 
was rallied from several quarters for my abstraction and un- 
gallant neglect of the ladies, but I cared little for that ; all I 
cared about, besides that one grand subject of my thoughts, 
was, to see the cups travel up to the tea-tray, and not come 
down again. I thought Mr. Mill ward never would cease 
telling us that he was no tea-diinker, ^d that it was highly in- 
jurious to keep loading the stomach with slops, to the exclusion 
of more wholesome sustenance, and so ^ive himself time to 
finish his fourth cup. 

At length it was over, and I rose and left the table and the 
guests, without a word of apology — I could endure their com- 
pany no longer. I rushed out to cool my brain in the balmy 
evening air, and to compose my mind or indulge my passionate 
thoughts in the solitude of the garden. 

To avoid being seen from the windows I went down a quiet 
little avenue that skirted one side of the inclosure, at the bottom 


68 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


of which was a seat imbowered in roses and honeysuckles. 
Here I sat down to think over the virtues and wrongs of the 
lady of Wildfell Hall ; but I had not been so occupied two 
minutes, before voices and laughter and glimpses of moving 
objects through the trees, informed me that the whole company 
had turned out to take an airing in the garden too. However, 
I nestled up in a corner of the bower, and hoped to retain pos- 
session of it, secure alike from observation and intrusion. But 
no — confound it, there was some one coming down the avenue ! 
Why couldn’t they enjoy the flowers and sunshine of the open 
garden, and leave that sunless nook to me and the gnats and 
midges 1 

But peeping through my fragrant screen of interwoven 
branches to discover who the intruders were (for a murmur of 
voices told me it was more than one), my vexation instantly 
subsided, and far other feelings agitated my still unquiet soul ; 
for there was Mrs. Graham, slowly moving down the walk, 
with Arthur by her side, and no one else. Why were they 
alone 1 Had the poison of detracting tongues already spread 
through all, and had they all turned their bracks upon her 'i I 
now recollected having seen Mrs. Wilson, in the early part of 
the evening, edging her chair close up to my mother, and 
bending forward, evidently in the delivery of some important, 
confidential intelligence ; and from the incessant wagging of 
her head, the frequent distortions of her wrinkled physiognomy, 
and the winking and malicious twinkle of her little ugly eyes, 
I judged it was some spicy piece of scandal that engaged her 
powers ; and from the cautious privacy of the communication 
I supposed some person then present was the luckless object of 
her calumnies, and from all these tokens, together with my 
mother’s looks and gestures of mingled horror and incredulity, 
I now concluded that object to have been Mrs. Graham. I 
did not emerge from my place of concealment, till she had 
nearly reached the bottom of the walk, lest my appearance 
should drive her away, and when I did step forward she stood 
still, and seemed inclined to turn back, as it was. 

“ Oh, don’t let us disturb you, Mr. Markham !” said she. “We 
came here to seek retirement ourselves ; not to intrude on your 
seclusion.” 

“ I am no hermit, Mrs. Graham, though I own it looks rather 
like it, to absent myself in this uncourteous fashion from my 
guests.” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


69 


“ I feared you were unwell,” said she, with a look of real con- 
cern. 

“ I was rather, but it’s over now. Do sit here a little, and 
rest, and tell me how you like this arbor,” said I, and lifting 
Arthur by the shoulders, I planted him in the middle of the seat 
by way of securing his mamma, who, acknowledging it to be a 
tempting place of refuge, threw herself back in one corner, 
while I took possession of the other. 

But that word refuge disturbed me. Had their unkindness 
then really driven lier to seek for peace in solitude 1 

“ Why have they left you alone 1” I asked. 

“ It is I who have left them,” was the smiling rejoinder. “ I 
was wearied to death with small-talk — nothing wears me out 
like that. I can not imagine how they can go on as they do.” 

I could not help smiling at the serious depth of her wonder- 
ment. 

“Is it that they think it a duty to be continually talking,” 
pursued she ; “ and so never pause to think, but fill up with 
aimless trifles and vain repetitions, when subjects of real inter- 
est fail to present themselves % — or do they really take a plea- 
sure in such discourse ]” 

“ Very likely they do,” said I : “ their shallow minds can hold 
no great ideas, and their light heads are carried away by triviali- 
ties, that would not move a better furnished skull ; and their 
only alternative to such discourse is, to plunge over head and 
ears into the slough of scandal — which is their chief delight.” 

“ Not all of them surely cried the lady, astonished at the 
bitterness of my remark. 

“ No, certainly ; I exonerate my sister from such degraded 
tastes, and my mother too, if you included her in your animad- 
versions.” 

“ I meant no animadversions against any one, and certainly in- 
tended no disrespectful allusions to your mother. I have known 
some sensible persons great adepts in that style of conversation, 
when circumstances impelled them to it ; but it is a gift I can not 
boast the possession of. I kept up my attention, on this occasion, 
as long as I could, but when my powers were exhausted, I stole 
away, to seek a few minutes’ repose in this quiet walk. I hate 
talking where there is no exchange of ideas or sentiments, and 
no good given or received.” 

“ Well,” said I, “ if ever I trouble you with my loquacity, tell 
me so at once, and I promise not to be offended ; for I possess 


70 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


the faculty of enjoying the company of those I. of my friends 

as well in silence as in conversation.” 

“ I don’t quite believe you j but if it were so, you would ex- 
actly suit me for a companion.” 

“ I am all you wish, then, in other respects ]” 

“ No, I don’t mean that. How beautiful those little clusters 
of foliage look, where the sun comes through behind them!” said 
she, on purpose to change the subject. 

And they did look beautiful, where, at intervals, the level rays 
of the sun penetrating the thickness of trees and shrubs on the 
opposite side of the path before us, relieved their dusky verdure 
by displaying patches of semi-transparent leaves of resplendent 
golden green. 

“ I almost wish I were not a painter,” observed my compan- 
ion. 

“ Why so 1 one would think at such a time you would most 
exult in your privilege of being able to imitate the various bril- 
liant and delightful touches of nature.” 

“ No ; for instead of delivering myself up to the full enjoy- 
ment of them as others do, I am always troubling my head about 
how I could produce the same effect upon canvas ; and as that 
can never be done, it is mere vanity and vexation of spirit.” 

“ Perhaps you can not do it to satisfy yourself, but you may 
and do succeed in delighting others with the result of your en- 
deavors.” 

“ Well, after all, I should not complain : perhaps few people 
gain their livelihood with so much pleasure in their toil as I do. 
Here is some one coming.” 

She seemed vexed at the inteiTuption. 

“ It is only Mr. Lawrence and Miss Wilson,” said I, “ coming 
to enjoy a quiet stroll. They will not disturb us.” 

I could not quite decipher the expression of her face ; but I 
was satisfied there was no jealousy therein. What business had 
I to look for it 'I 

“ What sort of a person is Miss Wilson ]” she asked. 

“ She is elegant and accomplished above the generality of her 
birth and station; and some say she is lady-like and agreeable.” 

“ I thought her somewhat frigid, and rather supercilious in 
her manner to-day.” 

“ Very likely she might be so to you. She has possibly taken 
a prejudice against you, for I think she regards you in the light 
of a rival.” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


71 


“Me? Impossible Mr. Markham!” said she, evidently as-' 
tonished and annoyed. 

“ Well, I know nothing about it,” returned I, rather doggedly; 
for I thought her annoyance was chiefly against myself. 

The pair had now approached within a few paces of us. Oiir 
arbor was set snugly back in a corner, before which the avenue, 
at its termination, turned off into the more airy walk along the 
bottom of the garden. As they approached this, I saw, by the 
aspect of Jane Wilson, that she was directing her companion’s 
attention to us ; and, as well by her cold, sarcastic smile, as by 
the few isolated words of her discourse that reached me, I knew 
full well that she was impressing him with the idea that we 
w’ere strongly attached to each other. I noticed that he colored 
up to the temples, gave us one furtive glance in passing, and 
walked on, looking grave, but seemingly offering no reply to 
her remarks. 

It was true, then, that he had some designs upon Mrs. Gra- 
ham ; and, were they honorable, he would not be so anxious tc 
conceal them. She was blameless, of course, but he was de- 
testable beyond all count. 

While these thoughts flashed through my mind, my compan- 
ion abruptly rose, and calling her son, said they would now go 
in quest of the company, and departed up the avenue. Doubt- 
less she had heard or guessed something of Miss Wilson’s re- 
marks, and therefore, it was natural enough she should choose 
to continue the tete-a-tete no longer, especially as at that moment 
my cheeks were burning with indignation against my former 
friend, the token of which she might mistake for a blush of 
stupid embarrassment. F or this I owed Miss Wilson yet anoth- 
er grudge ; and still the more I thought upon her conduct, the 
more I hated her. 

It was late in the evening before I joined the company. I 
found Mrs. Graham already equipped for departure, and taking 
leave of the rest, who were now returned to the house. I offer- 
ed — nay, begged to accompany her home. Mr. Lawrence was 
standing by at the time, conversing with some one else. He did 
not look at us, but on hearing my earnest request, he paused in 
the middle of a sentence to listen for her reply, and went oh, 
with a look of quiet satisfaction, the moment he found it was to 
be a denial. ' 

A denial it was, decided, though not unkind. She could^ not 
be persuaded to think there was danger for herself or her child 


72 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


in traversing those lonely lanes and fields without attendance. 
It was day -light still, and she should meet no one ; or if she did, 
the people were quiet and harmless, she was w’ell assured. In 
fact, she would not hear of any one’s putting himself out of 
the way to accompany her, though Fergus vouchsafed to offer 
his services, in case they should be more acceptable than mine, 
and my mother begged she might send one of the farming-men 
to escort her. 

When she was gone, the rest was all a blank, or worse. 
Lawrence attempted to draw me into conversation, but I snub- 
bed him, and went to another part of the room. Shortly after, 
the party broke up, and he himself took leave. When he came 
to me, I was blind to his extended hand, and deaf to his good 
night till he repeated it a second time ; and then, to get rid of 
him, I muttered an inarticulate reply, accompanied by a sulky 
nod. 

“ What is the matter, Markham 1” whispered he. 

I replied by a wrathful and contemptuous stare. 

“ Are you angry because Mrs. Graham would not let you go 
home with herl” he asked, with a faint smile that nearly exas- 
perated me beyond control. 

But, swallowing down all fierce answers, I merely demand- 
ed — 

“ What business is it of yours 

“Why, none,” replied he, with provoking quietness; “only,” 
and here he raised his eyes to my face, and spoke with unusual 
solemnity, “ only let me tell you, Markham, that if you have 
any designs in that quarter they will certainly fail ; and it grieves 
me to see you cherishing false hopes, and wasting your strength 
in useless efforts, for — 

“ Hypocrite !” I exclaimed, and he held his breath, and look- 
ed very blank, turned white about the gills, and went away with- 
out another word. 

I had wounded him to the quick — and I was glad of it. 


CHAPTER X. 

A CONTRACT AND A QUARREL. 

When all were gone, I learned that the vile slander had in- 
deed been circulated throughout the company, in the very pres- 
ence of the victim. Rose, however, vowed she did not and 
would not believe it, and my mother made the same declaration, 
though not, I fear, with the same amount of real, unwavering 
incredulity. It seemed to dwell continually on her mind, and 
she kept irritating me, fi'om time to time, by such expressions as 
— “ Dear, dear, who would have thought it ! — Well ! I always 
thought there was something odd about her. You see what it 
is for women to affect to be different to other people.” And 
once it was — 

“ I misdoubted that appearance of mystery from the very first; 
I thought there would no good come of it ; but this is a sad, sad 
business, to be sure !” ^ 

“ Why, mother, you said you didn’t believe these tales,” said 
F ergus. 

“ No more I do, my dear; but then, you know, there must 
be some foundation.” 

“ The foundation is in the wickedness and falsehood of the 
world,” said I, “ and in the fact that Mr. Lawrence has been 
seen to go that way once or twice of an evening — and the village 
gossips say he goes to pay his addresses to the strange lady, and 
the scandal-mongers have greedily seized the rumor, to make 
it the basis of their own infernal structure.” 

“ Well, but Gilbert, there must be something in her manner 
to countenance such reports.” 

“ Did you see any thing in her manner I’j 

“ No, certainly; but then you know, I always said there was 
something strange about her.” 

I believe it was on that very evening that I ventured on 
another invasion of Wildfell Hall. Fi-om the time of our party, 
which was upward of a week ago, I had been making daily 
efforts to meet its mistress in her walks; and, always disap- 
pointed (she must have managed it so on purpose), had nightly 
kept revolving in my mind some pretext for another call. At 
length, I concluded that the separation could be endured no 


74 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


longer (by this time you will see I was pretty far gone); and, 
taking from the bookcase an old volume that I thought she 
might be interested in, though, from its unsightly and somewhat 
dilapidated condition, I had not yet ventured to offer it for her 
penisal, I hastened away — but not without sundry misgivings 
as to how she would receive me, or how I could summon 
courage to present myself with so slight an excuse. But, per- 
haps, I might see her in the field or the garden, and then there 
would be no great difficulty : it was the formal knocking at the 
door, with the prospect of being gravely ushered in, by Rachel, 
to the presence of a surprised, uncordial mistress, that so greatly 
disturbed me. 

My wish, however, was not gratified. Mrs. Graham, herself, 
was not to be seen j but there was Arthur playing with his 
fi'olicsome little dog in the garden. I looked over the gate and 
called him to me. He wanted me to come in ; but I told him 
I could not without his mother’s leave. 

“ I’ll go and ask her,” said the child. 

“No, no, Arthur, you mustn’t do that — but if she’s not en- 
gaged, just ask her to come here a minute : tell her I want to 
speak to her. ” 

He ran to perform my bidding, and quickly returned with 
his mother. How lovely she looked with her dark ringlets 
streaming in the light summer breeze, her fair cheek slightly 
flushed, and her countenance radiant with smiles ! Dear Ar- 
thur ! what did I not owe to you for this and every other happy 
meeting. Through him, I was at once delivered from all formality, 
and terror, and constraint. In love affairs, there is no mediator 
like a merry, simple-hearted child — ever ready to cement divid- 
ed hearts, to span the unfriendly gulf of custom, to melt the ice 
of cold reserve, and overthrow the separating walls of dread 
formality and pride. 

“ Well, Mr. Markham, what is it]” said the young mother, 
accosting me with a pleasant smile. 

“ I want you to look at this book, and, if you please, to take 
it and peruse it at your leisure. I make no apology for calling 
you out on such a lovely evening, though it he for a matter of no 
greater importance.” 

“ Tell him to come in, mamma,” said Arthur. 

“ Would you like to come in ]” asked the lady. 

“Yes; I should like to see your improvements in the gar- 
den.” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


75 


“ And how your sister’s roots have prospered in my charge,” 
added she, as she opened the gate. 

And we sauntered through the garden, and talked of the 
flowers, the trees, and the book — and then of other things. 
The evening was kind and genial, and so was my companion. 
By degrees, I waxed more warm and tender than, perhaps, I 
had ever been before ; but still, I said nothing tangible, and she 
attempted no repulse ; until, in passing a moss rose-tree that 
I had brought her some weeks since, in my sister’s name, she 
plucked a beautiful half-open bud, and bade me give it to Rose. 

“ May I not keep it myself]” I asked. 

“ No ; but here is another for you.” 

Instead of taking it quietly, I likewise took the hand that offer- 
ed it, and looked into her face. She let me hold it for a moment, 
and I saw a flash of ecstatic brilliancy in her eye, a glow of glad 
excitement on her face — I thought my hour of victory was come 
— but instantly, a painful recollection seemed to flash upon her ; 
a cloud of anguish darkened her brow, a marble paleness blanch- 
ed her cheek and lip ; and there seemed a moment of inward 
conflict — and with a sudden effort she withdrew her hand, and 
retreated a step or two back. 

“ Now, Mr. Markham,” said she, with a kind of desperate 
calmness, “ I must tell you plainly, that I can not do with this. 
I like your company, because I am alone here, and your con- 
versation pleases me more than that of any other person ; but 
if you can not be content to regard me as a friend — a plain, 
cold, motherly, or sisterly friend, I must beg you to leave me 
now, and let me alone hereafter — in fact, we must be strangers 
for the future.” 

“ I will, then — be your friend — or brother, or any thing you 
wish, if you will only let me continue to see you ; but tell me 
why I can not be any thing more ]” 

There was a perplexed and thoughtful pause. 

“ Is it in consequence of some rash vow ]” 

“ It is something of the kind,” she answered, “ some day I 
may tell you, but at present you had better leave me ; and never, 
Gilbert, put me to the painful necessity of repeating what I have 
just now said to you!” she eaniestly added, giving me her 
hand in serious kindness. How sweet, how musical my own 
name sounded in her mouth 1 

“ I will not,” I replied, “ but you pardon this offense ]” 

On condition that you never repeat it.” 


76 


THE TENANT OP WILDFELL HALL. 


And may I come to see you, now and then 

“ Perhaps — occasionally — provided you never abuse the priv- 
ilege.” 

“ I make no empty promises, but you shall see.” 

“ The moment you do, our intimacy is at an end, that’s all.” 

“ And will you always call me Gilbert 'I it sounds more sis- 
terly, and it will serve to remind me of our contract.” 

She smiled, and once more bid me go, and, at length, I judged 
it prudent to obey ; and she re-entered the house, and I went 
down the hill. But as I went, the tramp of horses’ hoofs fell on 
ray ear, and broke the stillness of the dewy evening ; and, look- 
ing toward the lane, I saw a solitary equestrian coming up. In- 
clining to dusk as it was, I knew him at a glance : it was Mr. 
Lawrence on his gray pony. I flew across the field, leaped the 
stone fence, and then walked down the lane to meet him. On 
seeing me, he suddenly drew in his little steed, and seemed in- 
clined to turn back, but on second thought, apparently judged it 
better to continue his course as before. He accosted me with 
a slight bow, and, edging close to the wall, endeavored to pass 
on ; but I was not so minded : seizing his horse by the bridle, I 
exclaimed — 

“ Now, Lawrence, I will have this mystery explained ! Tell 
me where you are going, and what you mean to do — at once, 
and distinctly !” 

“ Will you take your hand off the bridle ]” said he, quietly ; 
“ You’re hurting my pony’s mouth.” 

“ You and your pony be !” 

“ What makes you so coarse and brutal, Markham ? I’m quite 
ashamed of you.” 

“ You answer my questions before you leave this spot ! I will 
know what you mean by this perfidious duplicity !” 

“ I shall answer no question till you let go the bridle, if you 
stand till morning.” 

“ Now, then,” said I, unclosing my hand, but still standing 
before him. 

“ Ask me some other time, when you can speak like a gentle- 
man,” returned he, and he made an effort to pass me again ; but 
I quickly re-captured the pony, scarce less astonished than its 
master at such uncivil usage. 

” Really, Mr. Markham, this is too much !” said the latter. 
“ Can I not go to see my tenant on matters of business, with- 
out being assaulted in this manner by — ” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


77 


“ This is no time for business, sir ! I’ll tell you, now, what I 
think of your conduct.” 

“ You’d better defer your opinion to a more convenient sea- 
son,” interrupted he, in a low tone ; “ here’s the vicar.” 

And, in truth, the vicar was just behind me, plodding home- 
ward from some remote corner of his parish. I immediately 
released the squire, and he went on his way, saluting Mr. Mill- 
ward as he passed. 

“ What, quarreling, Markham f’ ciied the latter, addressing 
himself to me, “ and about that young widow, I doubt,” he 
added, reproachfully shaking his head. “ But let me tell you, 
young man” (here he put his face into mine with an important, 
confidential air), “ she’s not worth it !” and he confirmed the as- 
sertion by a solemn nod. 

“Mr. Mill WARD !” I exclaimed, in a tone of wrathful menace 
that made the reverend gentleman look round, aghast, astounded 
at such unwonted insolence, and stare me in the face, wdth a 
look that plainly said : “ What, this to me !” But I was too 
indignant to apologize, or to speak another, word to him. I 
turned away, and hastened homeward, descending with rapid 
strides the steep, rough lane, and leaving him to follow as he 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE VICAR AGAIN. 

You must suppose about three weeks passed over. Mrs. 
Graham and I were now established friends — or brother and 
sister, as we rather chose to consider ourselves. She called me 
Gilbert, by my express desire, and I called her Helen, for I had 
seen that name written in her books. I seldom attempted to see 
her above twice a week ; and still I made our meetings appear 
the result of accident as often as I could — for I found it neces- 
sary to be extremely careful — and, altogether, I behaved with 
such exceeding propriety that she never had occasion to reprove 
me once. Yet I could not but perceive that she was at times 
unhappy and dissatisfied with herself, or her position, and truly 
1 myself was not quite contented with the latter : this assump 
tion of brotherly nonchalance was very hard to sustain, and I 


78 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


often felt myself a most confounded hypocrite with it all ; I saw, 
too, or, rather, I felt, that, in spite of herself, “ I was not indif- 
ferent to her,” as the novel heroes modestly express it, and while 
I thankfully enjoyed my present good fortune, I could not fail 
to wish and hope for something better in future ; but, of course, 
I kept such dreams entirely to myself. 

“ Where are you going, Gilbert 1” said Rose, one evening, 
shortly after tea, when I had been busy with the farm all day. 

“ To take a walk,” was the reply. 

“ Do you always brush your hat so carefully, and do your hair 
so nicely, and put on such smart new gloves, when you take a 
walk 

“ Not always.” 

“ You’re going to Wildfell Hall, aren’t you V’ 

“ What makes you think so 

“ Because you look as if you were — but I wish you wouldn’t 
go so often.” 

“ Nonsense, child ! I don’t go once in six weeks — what do 
you mean 

“ Well, but if I were you, I wouldn’t have so much to do 
with Mrs. Graham.” 

“ Why, Rose, are you, too, giving in to the prevailing opin- 
ion T’ 

“ No,” returned she, hesitatingly, “ but I’ve heard so much 
about her lately, both at the Wilsons’ and the vicarage ; and 
besides, mamma says, if she were a proper person, she would 
not be living there by herself — and don’t you remember last 
winter, Gilbert, all that about the false name to the picture ; 
and how she explained it — saying she had friends or acquaint- 
ances from whom she wished her present residence to be con- 
cealed, and that she was afraid of their tracing her out ; and 
then, how suddenly she started up and left the room when that 
person came — whom she took good care not to let us catch a 
glimpse of — and who Arthur, with such an air of mystery, told 
us was his mamma’s friend 

“ Yes, Rose, I remember it all ; and I can forgive your 
uncharitable conclusions ; for perhaps, if I did not know her 
myself, I should put all these things together, and believe the 
same as you do ; but, thank God, I do know her; and I should 
be unworthy the name of a man, if I could believe any thing 
that was said against her, unless I heard it fi’om her own lips. 
T should as soon believe such things of you, Rose.” 


THE TENANT OP WILDFELL HALL. 


79 


« Oh, Gilbert !” 

“ Well, do you think I could believe any thing of the kind, 
whatever the Wilsons and Millwards dared to whisper I” 

“ I should hope not, indeed !” 

“ And why not ? Because I know you. Well, and I know 
her just as well.” 

“ Oh, no ! you know nothing of her former life ; and last year 
at this time, you did not know that such a person existed.” 

“No matter. There is such a thing as looking through a 
person’s eyes into the heart, and learning more of the height, 
and breadth, and depth of another’s soul in one hour, than it 
might take you a lifetime to discover, if he or she were not 
disposed to reveal it, or if you had not the sense to understand 
it.” 

“ Then you are going to see her this evening 

“ To be sure I am !” 

“ But what would mamma say, Gilbert T’ 

“ Mamma needn’t know.” 

“ But she must know sometime, if you go on.” 

“ Go on ! there’s no going on in the matter. Mrs. Graham 
and I are two friends, and will be ; and no man breathing shall 
hinder it, or has a right to interfere between us.” 

“ But if you knew how they talk, you would be more careful, 
for her sake as well as for your own. Jane Wilson thinks your 
visits to the old Hall but another proof of her depravity — ” 

“ Confound Jane Wilson !” 

“ And Eliza Millward is quite giieved about you.” 

“ I hope she is.” 

“ But I wouldn’t if I were you.” 

“ Wouldn’t what h How do they know that I go there V* 

“ There’s nothing hid from them : they spy out every thing.” 

“ O, I never thought of this ! And so they dare to turn my 
friendship into food for further scandal against her ! That 
proves the falsehood of their other lies, at all events, if any 
proof were wanting. Mind, you contradict them. Rose, when- 
ever you can.” 

“ But they don’t speak openly to me about such things : it is 
only by hints and innuendoes, and by what I hear others say, 
that I know what they think.” 

“ Well, then, I won’t go to-day, as it’s getting latish. But 
oh, deuce take their cursed envenomed tongues !” I muttered in 
the bitterness of my soul. 


80 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


And just at that moment, the vicar entered the room : we 
had been too much absorbed in our conversation to observe his 
knock. After his customary cheerful and fatherly greeting of 
Rose, who was rather a favorite with the old gentleman, he 
turned somewhat steiTily to me — 

“ Well, sir!” said he, “.you’re quite a stranger. It is — let — 
me — see,” he continued slowly, as he deposited his ponderous 
bulk in the arm chair that Rose officiously brought toward him, 
“ it is just — six — weeks — by my reckoning, since you darkened 
— rny — door 1” He spoke it with emphasis, and struck his stick 
on the floor. 

“ Is it, sir V* said I. 

“Ay! It is so!” He added an affirmatory nod, and con- 
tinued to gaze upon me with a kind of irate solemnity, holding 
his si^bstantial stick between his knees, with his hands clasped 
upon its head. 

“I have been busy,” I said; for an apology was evidently 
demanded. 

“ Busy !” repeated he, derisively. 

“Yes; you know I have been getting in my hay; and now 
the harvest is beginning.” 

“ Humph !” 

Just then my mother came in, and created a diversion in 
my favor, by her loquacious and animated welcome of the 
reverend guest. She regi’etted deeply that he had not come a 
little earlier, in time for tea, but offered to have some immedi 
ately prepared, if he would do her the favor to partake of it. 

“ Not any for me, I thank you,” replied he; “I shall be at 
home in a few minutes.” 

“ Oh, but do stay and take a little ! it will be ready in five 
minutes.” 

But he rejected the offer, with a majestic wave of the hand. 

“ I’ll tell you what I’ll take, Mrs. Markham,” said he : “ I’ll 
take a glass of your excellent ale.” 

“With pleasure !” cried my mother, proceeding with alacrity 
to pull the bell and order the favored beverage. 

“ I thought,” continued he, “ I’d just look in upon you as I 
passed, and taste your home-brewed ale. I’ve been to call on 
Ml'S. Graham.” 

“ Have you, indeed V* 

He nodded gravely, and added, with a\yful emphasis — ^ 

“ I thought it incumbent upon me to do so.” 


THE TENANT OP WILDFELL HALL. 


81 


“ Really !” ejaculated the mother. 

“ Why so, Mr. Millward asked I. He looked at me with 
some severity, and turning again to my mother, repeated — 

“ I thought it incumbent upon me !’^ and struck his stick on 
the floor again. My mother sat opposite, an awe-struck but 
admiring auditor. 

“ ‘ Mrs. Graham,’ said I,” he continued shaking his head as 
he spoke, “ ‘ these are terrible reports V ‘ What sir V says she, 
affecting to be ignorant of my meaning. ‘ It is my — duty — as — 
your pastor,’ said I, ‘ to tell you both every thing that I myself 
see reprehensible in your conduct, and all I have reason to sus- 
pect, and what others tell me concerning you.’ So I told her !” 

“ You did, sir I” cried I, starting from my seat, and striking 
my fist on the table. He merely glanced toward me, and con- 
tinued — addressing his hostess — 

“ It was a painful duty, Mrs. Markham, but I told her!” 

“ And how did she take it V* asked my mother. 

“ Hardened, I fear — ^hardened 1” he replied, with a despon- 
dent shake of the head ; “ and at the same time, there was a 
strong display of unchastened, misdirected passions. She turned 
wh ite in the face, and drew her breath through her teeth in a savage 
sort of way ; but she offered no extenuation or defense ; and 
with a kind of shameless calmness — shocking indeed to witness, 
in one so young — as good as told me that my remonstrance 
was unavailing, and my pastoral advice quite thrown away 
upon her ; nay, that my very 'presence was displeasing, while I 
spoke such things. And I withdrew at length, too plainly see- 
ing that nothing could be done, and sadly grieved to find her 
so hopeless. But I am fully determined, Mrs. Markham, that 
my daughters — shall — not — consort with her. Do ybu adopt 
the same resolution with regard to yours ! As for your sons — 
as for you, young man,” he continued, sternly, to me. 

“ As for ME, sir,” I began, but checked by some impediment 
in my utterance, and finding that my whole frame trembled with 
fury, I said no more, but took the wiser part of snatching up my 
hat and bolting from the room, slamming the door behind me, 
with a bang that shook the house to its foundations, and made 
my mother scream, and gave a momentary relief to my excited 
feelings. 

The next minute saw me hurrying with rapid strides in the 
direction of Wildfell Hall — to what intent or purpose I could 
scarcely tell, but I must be moving somewhere, and no other 

D* 


82 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


goal would do. I must see her, too, and speak to her — that was 
certain ; but what to say, or how to act, I had no definite idea. 
Such stormy thoughts — so many different resolutions — crowded 
in upon me, that my mind was little better than a chaos of 
conflicting passions. 


CHAPTER XII. 

A TETE-A-TETE AND A DISCOVERY. 

In a little more than twenty minutes, the journey was accom- 
plished. I paused at the gate to wipe my streaming forehead, 
and recover my breath and some degree of composure. Al- 
ready the rapid walking had somewhat mitigated my excite- 
ment; and, with a firm and steady tread, I paced the garden 
walk. In passing the inhabited wing of the building, I caught 
a sight of Mrs. Graham, through the open window, slowly pacing 
up and down her lonely room. 

She seemed agitated, and even dismayed at my anival, as if 
she thought I too was coming to accuse her. I had entered her 
presence intending to condole with her upon the wickedness of 
the world, and help her to abuse the vicar and his vile inform- 
ants, but now I felt positively ashamed to mention the subject, 
and determined not to refer to it, unless she led the way. 

“ I am come at an unseasonable hour,” said I, assuming a cheer- 
fulness I did not feel, in order to reassure her ; “ but I won’t 
stay many minutes.” 

She smiled upon me, faintly, it is true, but most kindly — I had 
almost said thankfully — as her apprehensions were removed. 

“ How dismal you are, Helen ! Why have you no fire I” I 
said, looking round on the gloomy apartment. 

“ It is summer yet,” she replied. 

“ But we always have a fire in the evenings — if we can bear 
it; and you, especially require one in this cold house and dreary 
room.” 

“ You should have come a little sooner, and I would have 
had one lighted for you ; but it is not worth while now — you 
won’t stay many minutes, you say, and Arthur is gone to bed.” 

“ But I have a fancy for a fire, nevertheless. Will you order 
one, if I ling '1” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


83 


“ Why, Gilbert, you don’t look cold !” said she, smilingly 
regarding my face, which no doubt seemed warm enough. 

“ No,” replied I, “ but I want to see you comfortable before 
I go.” 

“ Me comfortable !” repeated she, with a bitter laugh, as if 
there was something amusingly absurd in the idea. “ It suits 
me better as it is,” she added in a lone of mournful resignation. 

But determined to have my own way, I pulled the bell. 

“ There now, Helen !” I said, as the approaching steps of 
Rachel were heard in answer to the summons. There was 
nothing for it but to turn round and desire the maid to light the 
fire. 

I owe Rachel a gi'udge to this day for the look she cast 
upon me ere she departed on her mission — the sour, suspicious, 
inquisitorial look that plainly demanded, “ what are you here 
for, I wonder 1” Her mistress did not fail to notice it, and a 
shade of uneasiness darkened her brow. 

“ You must not stay long, Gilbert,” said she, when the door 
was closed upon us. 

“ I’m not going to,” said I, somewhat testily, though without 
a grain of anger in my heart against any one but the meddling 
old woman. “ But, Helen, I’ve something to say to you before 
I go.” 

“What is it r 

“ No, not now — I don’t know yet precisely what it is, or how 
to say it,” replied I, with more truth than wisdom'; and then, 
fearing lest she should turn me out of the house, I began talk- 
ing about indifferent matters in order to gain time. Meanwhile 
Rachel came in to kindle the fire, which was soon effected by 
thrusting a red-hot poker between the bars of the gi*ate, where 
the fuel was already disposed for ignition. She honored me 
with another of her hard, inhospitable looks in departing, but, 
little moved thereby, I went on talking ; and setting a chair for 
Mrs. Graham on one side of the hearth and one for myself on 
the other, I ventured to sit down, though half suspecting she 
would rather see me go. 

In a little while we both relapsed into silence, and continued 
for several minutes gazing abstractedly into the fire : she intent 
upon her own sad thoughts, and I reflecting how delightful it 
would be to be seated thus beside her with no other presence 
to restrain our intercourse — not even that of Arthur, our mutual 
friend, without whom we had never met before — if only 1 


84 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


could venture to speak my mind, and disburden my full heart 
of the feelings that had so long oppressed it, and which it now 
struggled to retain, with an effort that it seemed impossible to 
continue much longer — and revolving the jpros and cons for 
opening my heart to her there and then, and imploring a 
return of affection, and permission to regard her thenceforth 
as my own, and the right and the power to defend her from the 
calumnies of malicious tongues. On the one hand, I felt a 
new-born confidence in my powers of persuasion ; a strong con- 
viction that my own fervor of spirit would grant me eloquence 
— that my very determination — the absolute necessity for suc- 
ceeding that I felt, must win me what I sought ; while, on the 
other, I feared to lose the ground I had already gained with so 
much toil and skill, and destroy all future hope by one rash 
effort, when time and patience might have won success. It was 
like setting my life upon the cast of a die ; and yet, I was 
ready to resolve upon the attempt. At any rate I would en- 
treat the explanation she had half promised to give me before : 
I would demand the reason of this hateful barrier, this mys- 
terious impediment to my happiness and, as I trusted, to her 
own. 

But while I considered in what manner I could best frame 
my request, my companion wakened from her reverie with a 
scarcely audible sigh, and looking toward the window’^ where 
the blood-red haiwest moon, just rising over one of the gi'im, 
fantastic evergreens, was shining in upon us, said — 

“ Gilbeit, it is getting late.” 

“ I see,” said I. “ You want me to go, I. suppose.” 

“ I think you ought. If my kind neighbors get to know of 
this visit — as no doubt they will — they will not turn it much to 
my advantage.” 

It was with what the vicar would doubtless have called a 
savage sort of a smile that she said this. 

“Let them turn it as they will,” said I. “ What are their 
thoughts to you or me, so long as we are satisfied with our- 
selves — and each other. Let them go to the deuce with their 
vile constructions, and their lying inventions !” 

This outburst brought a flush of color to her face. 

“ You have heard, then, what they say of me ]” 

“ I heard some detestable falsehoods ; but none but fools 
would credit them for a moment, Helen, so don’t let them 
trouble you.” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


85 


“ I did not think Mr. Millward a fool, and he believes it all ; 
but however little you may value the opinions of those about 
you — however little you may esteem them as individuals — it is 
not pleasant to be looked upon as a liar and a hypocrite, to be 
thought to practice what you abhor, and to encourage the vices 
you would discountenance, to find your good intentions frus- 
trated, and your hands crippled by your supposed unworthiness, 
and to bring disgrace on the principles you profess.” 

“ True ; and if I, by my thoughtlessness and selfish disregard 
to appearances, have at all assisted to expose you to these 
evils, let me entreat you not only to pardon me, but to enable 
me to make reparation ; authorize me to clear your name from 
every imputation : give me the right to identify your honor 
with my own, and to defend your reputation as more precious 
than my life !” 

“Are you hero enough to unite yourself to one whom you 
know to be suspected and despised by all around you, and 
identify your interests and your honor with hers '? Think ! it 
is a serious thing.” 

“ I should be proud to do it, Helen! — most happy — delighted 
beyond expression ! — and if that be all the obstacle to our 
union, it is demolished, and you must — you shall be mine 1” 

And starting from my seat in a frenzy of ardor, I seized her 
hand and would have pressed it to my lips, but she as suddenly 
caught it away, exclaiming in the bitterness of intense afflic- 
tion — 

“ No, no, it is not all I” 

“ What is it, then 1 You promised I should know some time, 
and — ” 

“ You shall know some time — but not now — my head aches 
terribly,” she said, pressing her hand to her forehead, “ and I 
must have some repose — and surely I have had misery enough 
to-day I” she added, almost wildly. 

“ But it could not harm you to tell it,” I persisted : “ it would 
ease your mind; and I should then know how to comfort 
you.” 

She shook her head despondingly. “ If you knew all, you 
too, would blame me — perhaps even more than I deserve — 
though I have cruelly wronged you,” she added in a low 
murmur, as if she mused aloud. 

“ You, Helen ? Impossible 1” 

“ Yes. not willingly ; for I did not know the strength and 


86 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


depth of your attachment — I thought — at least I endeavored 
to think your regard for me was as cold and fraternal as you 
professed it to be.” 

Or as yours 

“ Or as mine — ought to have been — of such a Kght and self- 
ish, superficial nature that — ” * 

“ There, indeed, you wronged me.” 

“ I know I did ; and sometimes, I suspected it then ; but I 
thought, upon the whole, there could be no great harm in 
leaving your fancies and your hopes to dream themselves to 
nothing, or flutter away to some more fitting object, while your 
friendly sympathies remained with me; but if I had known the 
depth of your regard, the generous, disinterested affection you 
seem to feel — ” 

“ Seem, Helen 1” 

“ That you do feel, then, I would have acted differently.” 

“ How ? — You could not have given me less encouragement, 
or treated me with greater severity than you did ! And if you 
think you have wronged me by giving me your friendship, and 
occasionally admitting me to the enjoyment of your company 
and conversation, when all hopes of closer intimacy were vain 
— as indeed you always gave me to understand — if you think 
you have wronged me by this, you are mistaken; for such 
favors, in themselves alone, are not only delightful to my heart, 
but purifying, exalting, ennobling to my soul ; and I would 
rather have your friendship than the love of any other woman 
in the world !” 

Little comforted by this, she clasped her hands upon her 
knee, and glancing upward, seemed, in silent anguish, to im- 
plore divine assistance ; then turning to me, she calmly said — 

“ To-morrow, if you meet me on the moor about mid-day, I 
will tell you all you seek to know ; and perhaps you will then 
see the necessity of discontinuing our intimacy — if, indeed, you 
do not willingly resign me as one no longer worthy of regard.” 

“ I can safely answer no, to that : you can not have such 
grave confessions to make — you must be trying my faith, 
Helen.” 

“No, no, no,” she earnestly repeated — “I wish it were so! 
Thank Heaven ;” she added, “ I have no great crime to confess; 
but I have more than you will like to hear, or, perhaps, can 
readily excuse ; and more than I can tell you now ; so let me 
entreat you to leave me j” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


87 


“ I will ; but answer me this one question first — do you 
love me 

“I will not answer it !” 

“ Then I will conclude you do ; and so good night,” 

She turned from me to hide the emotion she could not quite 
control ; but I took her hand and fervently kissed it. 

“ Gilbert, do leave me !” she cried, in a tone of such thrilling 
anguish that I felt it would be cruel to disobey. 

But I gave one look back before I closed the door, and saw 
her leaning forward on the table, with her hands pressed against 
her eyes, sobbing convulsively; yet I withdrew in silence. I 
felt that to obtrude my consolations on her then would only 
serve to aggravate her sufferings. 

To tell you all the questionings and conjectures, the fears, 
and hopes, and wild emotions that jostled and chased each 
other through my mind as I descended the hill, would almost 
fill a volume in itself. But before I was half way down, a senti- 
ment of strong sympathy for her I had left behind me had 
displaced all other feelings, and seemed imperatively to draw 
me back : I began to think, “ Why am I hurrying so fast in 
this direction % Can I find comfort or consolation — peace, cer- 
tainty, contentment, all — or any thing that I want at home ] 
and can I leave all perturbation, sorrow, and anxiety behind me 
there 

And I turned round to look at the old Hall. There was 
little besides the chimneys visible above my contracted horizon. 
I walked back to get a better view of it. When it rose in 
sight, I stood still a moment to look, and then continued moving 
toward the gloomy object of attraction. Something called me 
nearer — nearer still — and why not, pray 1 Might I not find 
more benefit in the contemplation of that venerable pile with 
the full moon in the cloudless heaven shining so calmly above it 
— with that warm yellow luster peculiar to an August night — 
and the mistress of my soul within, than in returning to my 
home where all comparatively was light, and life, and cheerful- 
ness, and therefore inimical to me in my present frame of mind, 
and the more so that its inmates all were more or less imbued 
with that detestable belief, the very thought of which made my 
blood boil in my veins ! And how could I endure to hear it 
openly declared — or cautiously insinuated, which was worse 1 
I had had trouble enough already, with some babbling fiend 
that would keep whispering in my ear, “ It may be true,” till T 


88 


THE TENANT OF VVILDFELL HALL. 


had shouted aloud, “It is false! I defy you to make me suppose 
it!” 

I could see the red fire-light dimly gleaming from her parlor- 
window. I went up to the garden wall, and stood leaning over 
it, with my eyes fixed upon the lattice, wondering what she was 
doing, thinking, or suffering now, and wishing I could speak to 
her but one word, or even catch one glimpse of her before I 
went. 

I had not thus looked, and wished, and wondered long, before 
I vaulted over the barrier, unable to resist the temptation of 
taking one glance through the window, just to see if she were 
more composed than when we parted ; and if I found her still 
in deep distress, perhaps I might venture to attempt a word of 
comfort — to utter one of the many things I should have said 
before, instead of aggravating her sufferings by my stupid 
impetuosity. I looked. Her chair was vacant : so was the 
room. 

At that moment some one opened the outer door, and a 
voice — her voice — said — 

“ Come out — I want to see the moon, and breathe the even- 
ing air : they will do me good — if any thing will.” 

Here, then, were she and Rachel coming to take a walk in 
the garden. I wished myself safe back over the wall. I stood, 
however, in the shadow of the tall holly bush, which, standing 
between the window and the porch, at present screened me 
from observation, but did not prevent me from seeing two 
figures come forth into the moonlight; Mrs. Graham followed 
by another — not Rachel, but a young man, slender and rather 
tall. Oh, heavens, how my temples throbbed ! Intense anxiety 
darkened my sight; but I thought — yes, and the voice confirmed 
it — it was Mr. Lawrence. 

“ You should not let it worry you so much, Helen,” said he ; 
“ I will be more cautious in future ; and in time — ” 

I did not hear the rest of the sentence ; for he walked close 
beside her, and spoke so gently that I could not catch the words. 
My heart was splitting with hatred ; but I listened intently for 
her reply. I heard it plainly enough. 

“ But I must leave this place, Frederic,” she said, “ I can 
never be happy here — nor any where else, indeed,” she added, 
with a mirthless laugh — “ but I can not rest here.” 

“ But where could you find a better place V' replied he, “ so 
secluded — so near me, if you think any thing of that.” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


89 


“ Yes/’ interrupted she, “ it is all I could wish, if they could 
only have left me alone.” 

“But wherever you go, Helen, there will be the same sources 
of annoyance. I can not consent to lose you : I must go with 
you, or come to you ; and there are meddling fools elsewhere, 
as well as here.” 

While thus conversing, they had sauntered slowly past me, 
down the walk, and I heard no more of their discourse ; but J 
saw him put his arm round her waist, while she lovingly rested 
her hand on his shoulder; and then, a tremulous darkness ob- 
scured my sight, my heart sickened, and my head burned like 
fire. I half rushed, half staggered from the spot where horror 
had kept me rooted, and leaped or tumbled over the wall — I 
hardly know which — but I know that, afterward, like a passion- 
ate child, I dashed myself on the ground and lay there in a par- 
oxysm of anger and despair — how long,^I can not undertake to 
say ; but it must have been a considerable time ; for when, hav- 
ing partially relieved myself by a torrent of tears, and looked 
up at the moon, shining so calmly and carelessly on, as little 
influenced by my misery as I was by its peaceful radiance, and 
earnestly prayed for death or forgetfulness, I had risen and 
journeyed homeward — little regarding the way, but carried 
instinctively by my feet to the door, I found it bolted against 
me, and every one in bed except my mother, who hastened 
to answer my impatient knocking, and received me with a 
shower of questions and rebukes. 

“ Oh, Gilbert, how could you do so ? Where haveyoM been? 
Do come in and take your supper. I’ve got it all ready, though 
you don’t deserve it, for keeping me in such a fright, after the 
strange manner you left the house this evening. Mr. Millward 

was quite Bless the boy ! how ill he looks ! Oh, gracious ! 

what is the matter ?” 

“ Nothing, nothing — give me a candle.” 

“ But won’t you take some supper?” 

“ No, I want to go to bed,” said I, taking a candle and light- 
ing it at the one she held in her hand. 

“ Oh, Gilbert, how you tremble !” exclaimed my anxious 
parent. “ How white you look ! Do tell me'what it is? Has 
any thing happened ?” 

“ It’s nothing !” cried I, ready to stamp with vexation because 
the candle would not light. Then, suppressing .my irritation, I 
added, “ I’ve been walking too fast, that’s all. Good night,” 


90 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


and marched off to bed, regardless of the “Walking too fast! 
where have you been that was called after me from below. 

My mother followed me to the very door of my room with 
her questionings and advice concerning my health and my con- 
duct ; but I implored her to let me alone till morning ; and she 
withdrew, and at length, I had the satisfaction to hear her close 
her own door. There was no sleep for me, however, that night, 
as I thought ; and instead of attempting to solicit it, I employed 
myself in rapidly pacing the chamber — ^having first removed my 
boots, lest my mother should hear me. But, the boards creaked, 
and she Was watchful. I had not walked above a quarter of 
an hour before she was at the door again. 

“ Gilbert, why are you not in bed — you said you wanted to 
go . 

“ Confound it 1 I’m going,” said I. 

“ But why are you so long about it 1 you must have some- 
thing on your mind — ” 

“ For heaven’s sake, let me alone, and get to bed yourself!” 

“ Can it be that Mrs. Graham that distresses you so T’ 

“ No, no, I tell you. It’s nothing 1” 

“ I wish to goodness it mayn’t I” murmured she, with a sigh, 
as she returned to her own apartment, while I threw myself on 
the bed, feeling most undutifully disaffected toward her, for 
having deprived me of what seemed the only shadow of a con- 
solation that remained, and chained me to that wretched couch 
of thorns. 

Never did I endure so long, so miserable a night as that. And 
yet, it was not wholly sleepless : toward morning my distracting 
thoughts began to lose all pretensions to coherency, and shape 
themselves into confused and feverish dreams ; and, at length, 
there followed an interval of unconscious slumber. But then the 
dawn of bitter recollection that succeeded — the waking to find 
life a blank, and worse than a blank — teeming with torment ana 
misery — not a mere barren wilderness, but full of thorns and 
briars — to find myself deceived, duped, hopeless, my affections 
trampled upon, my angel not an angel, and my friend a fiend 
incarnate — it was worse than if I had not slept at all. 

It was a dull, gloomy morning; the weather had changed 
like my prospects, and the rain was pattering against the win- 
dow. I rose, nevertheless, and went out ; not to look after the 
farm, though that would serve as my excuse, but to cool my 
brain, and regain, if possible, a sufficient degree of composure 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


91 


to meet the family at the morning meal without exciting incon- 
venient remarks. If I got a wetting, that, in conjunction with a 
pretended over-exertion before breakfast, might excuse my sud- 
den loss of appetite ; and if a cold ensued — the severer the 
better — it would help to account for the sullen moods and mop- 
ing melancholy likely to crowd my brow for long enough. 


CHAPTER XIIL 

A RETUR N TO DUTY. 

“ My dear Gilbert ! I wish you would try to be a little more 
amiable,” said my mother, one morning, after some display of 
unjustifiable ill-humor on my part. “ You say there is nothing 
the matter with you, and nothing has happened to grieve you, 
and yet, I never saw any one so altered as you within these last 
few days : you haven’t a good word for any body — friends and 
strangers, equals and inferiors — it’s all the same. I do wish 
you’d try to check it.” 

“ Check what 

“ Why, your strange temper. You don’t know how it spoils 
you. I’m sure a finer disposition than yours, by nature, could 
not be, if you’d let it have fair play ; so you’ve no excuse 
that way.” 

While she thus remonstrated, I took up a book, and, laying it 
open on the table before me, pretended to be deeply absorbed 
in its perusal ; for I was equally unable to justify myself, and 
unwilling to acknowledge my errors ; and I wished to have 
nothing to say on the matter. But my excellent parent went on 
lecturing, and then came to coaxing, and began to stroke my 
hair ; and I was getting to feel quite a good boy, but my mis- 
chievous brother, who was idling about the room, revived my 
corruption by suddenly calling out : — 

“ Don’t touch him, mother ! he’ll bite ! He’s a very tiger in 
human form. I've given him up, for my part — fairly disowned 
— cast him off, root and branch. It’s as much as my life is 
worth to come w’ithin six yards of him. The other day he nearly 
fractured my skull for singing a pretty, inoffensive love song, on 
purpose to amuse him.” 


92 


THE TENANT OP WILDFELL HALL. 


“ Oh, Gilbert ! how could you V* exclaimed my mother. 

“ I told you to hold your noise first, you know, Fergus,” said I. 

“ Yes, but when I assured you it was no trouble, and went on 
with the next verse, thinking you might like it better, you 
clutched me by the shoulder and dashed me away, right against 
the wall there, with such force, that I thought I had bitten my 
tongue in two, and expected to see the place plastered with my 
brains ; and when I put my hand to my head and found my 
skull not broken, I thought it was a miracle, and no mistake. 
But, poor fellow !” added he, with a sentimental sigh, “ his 
heart’s broken — that’s the truth of it — and his head’s — ” 

“ Will you be silent now cried I, starting up, and eyeing 
the fellow so fiercely, that my mother, thinking I meant to inflict 
some grievous bodily injury, laid her hand on my arm, and be- 
sought me to let him alone, and he walked leisurely out, with 
his hands in his pockets, singing provokingly, “ Shall I because 
a woman’s fair,” &c. 

“ I’m not going to defile my fingers with him,” said I, in an- 
swer to the maternal intercession. “ I wouldn’t touch him with 
the tongs.” 

I now recollected that I had business with Robert Wilson, 
concerning the purchase of a certain field adjoining my farm — 
a business I had been putting off from day to day ; for I had- no 
interest in any thing now ; and besides, I was misanthropically 
inclined, and, moreover, had a particular objection to meeting 
J ane Wilson or her mother ; for though I had too good reason, 
now, to credit their reports concerning Mrs. Graham, I did not 
like t?iem a bit the better for it — or Eliza Millward either — and 
the thought of meeting them was the more repugnant to me, 
that I could not now defy their seeming calumnies, and triumph 
in my own convictions, as before. But to-day I determined to 
make an effort to return to my duty. Though I found no 
pleasure in it, it would be less irksome than idleness; at all 
events, it would be more profitable. If life promised no enjoy 
ment within my vocation, at least it offered no allurements out 
of it; and henceforth, I would put my shoulder to the wheel 
and toil away, like any poor drudge of a cart-horse that was 
fairly broken in to its labor, and plod through life, not wholly 
useless if not agreable, and uncomplaining if not contented with 
my lot. 

Thus resolving, with a kind of sullen resignation, if such a 
term may be allowed, I wended my way to Ryecote Fan 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


93 


scarcely expecting to find its owner within at this time of day, 
but hoping to learn in what part of the premises he was most 
likely to be found. 

Absent he was, but expected home in a few minutes ; and I 
was desired to step into the parlor and wait. Mrs. Wilson was 
Dusy in the kitchen, but the room was not empty; and I scarcely - 
checked an involuntary recoil as I entered it ; for there sat Miss 
Wilson chattering with Eliza Millward. However, I deter- 
mined to be cool and civil. Eliza seemed to have made the 
same resolution on her part. We had not met since the evening 
of the tea party ; but there was no visible emotion either of pleas- 
ure or pain, no attempt at pathos, no display of injured pride : 
she was cool in temper, civil in demeanor. There was even an 
ease and cheerfulness about her air and manner that I made no 
pretension to ; but there was a depth of malice in her too ex- 
pressive eye, that plainly told me I was not forgiven ; for, though 
she no longer hoped to win me to herself, she still hated her 
rival, and evidently delighted to wreak her spite on me. On 
the other hand. Miss Wilson was as affable and courteous as 
heart could wish, and though I was in no very conversable humor 
myself, the two ladies between them managed to keep up a 
pretty continuous fire of small talk. But Eliza took advantage 
of the first convenient pause to ask if 1 had lately seen Mrs. 
Graham, in a tone of merely casual inquiry, but with a sidelong 
glance — intended to be playfully mischievous — really, brimful 
and running over with malice. 

“ Not lately,” I replied, in a careless tone, but sternly repelling 
her odious glances with my eyes ; for I was vexed to feel the 
color mounting to my forehead, despite my strenuous efforts to 
appear unmoved. 

“ What ! are you beginning to tire already ] I thought so 
noble a creature would have power to attach you for a year, at 
least!” 

“ I would rather not speak of her now.” 

“Ah I then you are convinced, at last, of your mistake — you 
have at length discovered that your divinity is not quite immac- 
ulate ” 

“ I desired you not to speak of her. Miss Eliza.” 

“Oh, 1 beg your pardon! I perceive Cupid’s an'ows have 
been too sharp for you ; the wounds, being more than skin deep, 
are not yet healed, and bleed afresh at every mention of the 
loved one’s name.” 


94 


THE TENANT OP WILDFELL HALL. 


“ Say rather,” interposed Miss Wilson, “ that Mr. Markham 
feels that name is unworthy to be mentioned in the presence of 
right-minded females. I wonder, Eliza, you should think of 
referring to that unfortunate person ; you might know the men- 
tion of her would be any thing but agreeable to any one here 
present.” 

How could this be borne 1 I rose and was about to clap ray 
hat upon my head and burst away, in wrathful indignation, from 
the house ; but recollecting — -just in time to save my dignity — 
the folly of such a proceeding, and how it would only give my 
fair tormentoi's a merry laugh at my expense, for the sake of one 
I acknowledged in my own heart to be unworthy of the slightest 
sacrifice — though the ghost of my former reverence and love so 
hung about me still, that I could not bear to hear her name 
aspersed by others — I merely walked to the window, and hav- 
ing spent a few seconds in vengibly biting my lips, and sternly 
repressing the passionate heavings of my chest, I observed to 
Miss Wilson, that I could see nothing of her brother, and added 
that, as my time was precious, it would perhaps be better to 
call again to-moiTow, at some time when I should be sure to find 
him at home. 

“ Oh no !” said she ; “ if you wait a minute, he will be sure 
to come ; for he has business at L — ” (that was our market 
town), “ and will require a little refreshment before he goes.” 

I submitted, accordingly, with the best grace I could ; and 
happily, I had not long to wait. Mr. Wilson soon arrived, and 
indisposed for business as I was at that moment, and little as I 
cared for the field or its owner, I forced my attention to the 
matter in band, with very creditable determination, and quickly 
concluded the bargain — perhaps more to the thrifty farmer’s 
satisfaction than he cared to acknowledge. Then, leaving him 
to the discussion of his substantial “ refreshment,” I gladly quit- 
ted the house, and went to look after my reapers. 

Leaving them busy at work on the side of the valley, I as- 
cended the hill, intending to visit a corn-field in the more ele- 
vated regions, and see when it would be ripe for the sickle. 
But I did not visit it that day ; for, as I approached, I beheld 
at no gieat distance, Mrs. Graham and her son coming down in 
the opposite direction. They saw me, and Arthur already was 
running to meet me; but I immediately turned back, and 
walked steadily homeward, for I had fully determined never to 
encounter his mother again ; and regardless of the shrill voice 


THE TENANT OF WILDPALL HALL. 


95 


in my ear, calling upon me to “ wait a moment,” I pursued the 
even tenor of my way, and he soon relinquished the pursuit as 
hopeless, or was called away by his mother. At all events, 
when I looked back, five minutes after, not a trace of either 
was to be seen. 

This incident agitated and disturbed me most unaccountably 
— unless you would account for it by saying that Cupid’s 
arrows not only had been too sharp for me, but they were 
barbed and deeply rooted, and I had not yet been able to 
v/rench them from my heart. However that may be, I was 
rendered doubly miserable for the remainder of the day. * 


CHAPTER XIV. 

AN ASSAULT. 

Next morning, I bethought me, I, too, had business at L — ; 
so I mounted my horse, and set forth on the expedition soon 
after breakfast. It was a dull, drizzly day, but that was no 
matter ; it was all the more suitable to my frame of mind. It 
was likely to be a lonely journey; for it was no market-day, 
and the road I traversed was little frequented at any other 
time — but that suited me all the better too. 

As I trotted along, however, chewing the cud of hitter fancies, 
I heard another horse at no great distance behind me ; but I 
never conjectured who the rider might be, or troubled my head 
about him, till, on slackening my pace to ascend a gentle accliv- 
ity — or rather, suffering my horse to slacken its pace into a 
lazy walk, for, lost in my own reflections, I was letting it jog 
on as leisurely as it thought proper — I lost ground, and my 
fellow traveler overtook me. He accosted me by name ; for it 
was no stranger — it was Mr. Lawrence ! Instinctively the 
fingers of ray whip-hand tingled, and grasped their charge with 
convulsive energy ; but I restrained the impulse, and answering 
his salutation with a nod, attempted to push on, but he pushed 
on beside me and began to talk about the weather and the crops. 
I gave the briefest possible answers to his queries and obser- 
vations, and fell back. He fell back too, and asked if my horse 
was lame. I replied with a look^ at which he placidly smiled. 

I was as much astonished as exasperated at this singular 


96 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


pertinacity and imperturbable assurance on his part. I had 
thought the circumstances of our last meeting would have left 
such an impression on his mind as to render him cold and dis- 
tant ever after : instead of that, he appeared not only to have 
forgotten all former offenses, but to be impenetrable to all pre- 
sent incivilities. Formerly, the slightest hint, or mere fancied 
coldness in tone or glance, had sufficed to repulse him : now, 
positive rudeness could not drive him away. Had he heard of 
my disappointment, and was he come to witness the result, and 
triumph in my despair ? I grasped my whip with more deter- 
mihed energy than before, but still forbore to raise it, and rode 
on in silence, waiting for some more tangible cause of offense 
before I opened the floodgates of my soul, and poured out the 
dammed up fury that was foaming and swelling within. 

“ Markham,” said he, in his usual quiet tone, “ why do you 
quarrel with your friends, because you have been disappointed 
in one quarter] You have found your hopes defeated, but 
how am I to blame for it] I warned you beforehand, you 
know, but you would not — ” 

He said no more ; for, impelled by some fiend at my elbow, 
I had seized my whip by the small end, and, swift and sudden 
as a flash of lightning, brought the other down upon his head. 
It was not without a feeling of savage satisfaction that I beheld 
the instant, deadly pallor that overspread his face, and the few 
red drops that trickled down his forehead, while he reeled a 
moment in his saddle, and then fell backward to the ground. 
The pony, surprised to be so strangely relieved of its burden, 
started and capered, and kicked a little, and then made use of 
its freedom to go and crop the grass of the hedge bank, while 
its master lay as still and silent as a corpse. Had I killed him ] 
An icy hand seemed to grasp my heart and check its pulsation, 
as I bent over him, gazing with breathless intensity upon the 
ghastly, upturned face. But no ; he moved his eyelids and 
uttered a slight groan. I breathed again ; he was only stunned 
by the fall. It served him right — it would teach him better 
manners in future. Should I help him to his horse ] No. For 
any other combination of offenses I would ; but his were too 
unpardonable. He might mount it himself if he liked — in a 
while : already he was beginning to stir and look about him, 
and there it was for him, quietly browsing on the road-side. 

So with a muttered execration, I left the fellow to his fate, 
and clapping spurs to my own horse, galloped away, excited by 


THE TENANT OF VVILDFELL HALL. 


97 


a combination of feelings it would not be easy to analyze ; and 
perhaps, if I did so, the result would not be very creditable to 
my disposition ; for I am not sure that a species of exultation in 
what I had done, was not one principal concomitant. 

Shortly, however, the effen^escence began to abate, and not 
many minutes elapsed before I had tunied and gone back to 
look after the fate of my victim. It was no generous impulse ; 
no kind relentings that led me to this — nor even the fear of what 
might be the consequences to myself, if I finished my assault 
upon the squire by leaving him thus neglected, and exposed to 
further injury ; it was, simply, the voice of conscience ; and I 
took great credit to myself for attending so promptly to its dic- 
tates — and judging the merit of the deed by the sacrifice it 
cost, I was not far wrong. 

Mr. Lawrence and his pony had both altered their positions, 
in some degree. The pony had wandered eight or ten yards 
farther away ; and he had managed, somehow, to remove him- 
self from the middle of the road. I found him seated in a re- 
cumbent position on the bank ; looking very white and sickly 
still, and holding his cambric handkerchief (now more red than 
white) to his head. It must have been a powerful blow — but 
half the credit — or the blame of it (which you please) must be 
attributed to the whip, which was garnished with a massive 
horse’s head of plated metal. The grass, being sodden with 
rain, afforded the young gentleman a rather inhospitable couch ; 
his clothes were considerably bemired ; and his hat was rolling 
in the mud, on the other side of the road. But his thoughts 
seemed chiefly bent upon his pony, on which he was wistfully 
gazing — half in helpless anxiety, and half in hopeless abandon- 
ment to his fate. 

I dismounted, however, and having fastened my own animal 
to the nearest tree, first picked up his hat, intending to clap it 
on his head ; but either he considered his head unfit for a hat, 
or the hat, in its present condition, unfit for his head ; for shrink- 
ing away the one, he took the (^her from my hand, and scorn- 
fully cast it aside. 

“ It’s good enough for yoUy^ I muttered. 

My next good offipe was to catch his pony and bring it to 
him, which was soon accomplished ; for the beast was quiet 
enough in the main, and only winced and flirted a trifle, till I 
got a hold of the bridle. But then, I must see him in the 
saddle. 


E 


98 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“Here, you fellow — scoundrel — dog — give me your hand, 
and I’ll help you to mount.” 

No ; he turned from me in disgust. I attempted to take him 
by the arm. He shrank away, as if there had been contami- 
nation in my touch. 

“ What, you won’t 1 Well ! you may sit there iill doomsday, 
for what I care. But I suppose you don’t want to lose all the 
blood in your body — I’ll just condescend to bind that up for 
you.” 

“ Let me alone, if you please.” 

“ Humph ! with all my heart. You may go the d — 1 if you 
choose ; and say I sent you.” 

But before I abandoned him to his fate, I flung his pony’s 
bridle over a stake in the hedge, and threw him my handker- 
chief, as his own was now saturated with blood. He took it 
and cast it back to me, in abhorrence and contempt, with all the 
strength he could muster. It wanted but this to fill the measure 
of his offenses. With execrations not loud but deep, I left him 
to live or die- as he could, well satisfied that I had done my duty 
in attempting to save him ; but forgetting how I had erred in 
bringing him into such a condition, and how insultingly my 
after services had been offered — and sullenly prepared to meet 
the consequences if he should choose to say I had attempted to 
murder him, which I thought not unlikely, as it seemed probable 
he was actuated by some such spiteful motives in so persever- 
ingly refusing my assistance. 

Having remounted my horse, I just looked back to see how 
he was getting on, before I rode away. He had risen from the 
ground, and grasping his pony’s mane, was attempting to re- 
sume his seat in the saddle ; but scarcely had he put his foot in 
the stirrup, when a sickness or dizziness seemed to overpower 
him : he leaned forward a moment, with his head drooped on 
the animal’s back, and then made one more effort, which prov- 
ing ineffectual, he sank back on to the bank, where I left him, 
reposing his head on the oozy •turf, and, to all appearance, as 
calmly reclining as if he had been taking his rest on the sofa at 
home. 

I ought to have helped him in spite of himself — to have bound 
up the wound he was unable to stanch, and insisted upon get- 
ting him on his horse and seeing him safe home ; but, besides 
my bitter indignation against himself, there was the question 
what to say to Tiis servants and what to m.y own family.* Either 


THE TENANT OF WILDPELL HALL. 


99 


I should have to acknowledge the deed, which would set me 
down as a madman, unless I acknowledged the motive too ; and 
that seemed impossible ; or I must get up a lie, which seemed 
equally out of the question, especially as Mr. Lawrence would 
probably reveal the whole truth, and thereby bring me to ten- 
fold disgrace, unless I were villain enough, presuming on the 
absence of witnesses, to persist in my own version of the case, 
and make him out a still greater scoundrel than he was. No ; 
he had only received a cut above the temple, and perhaps, a 
few bruises from the fall, or the hoofs of his own pony : that 
could not kill him if he lay there half the day ; and, if he could 
not help himself, surely some one would be coming by : it would 
be impossible that a whole day should pass and no one traverse 
the road but ourselves. As for what he might choose to say 
hereafter, I would take my chance about it. If he told lies, I 
would contradict him ; if he told the truth, 1 would bear it as I 
best could. I was not obliged to enter into explanations, further 
than I thought proper. Perhaps, he might choose to be silent 
on the subject, for fear of raising inquiries as to the cause of the 
quarrel, and drawing the public attention to his connection with 
Mrs. Graham, which, whether for her sake or his own, he seem- 
ed so very desirous to conceal. 

Thus reasoning, I trotted away to the town, where I duly 
transacted my business, and peiformed various little commissions 
for my mother and Rose, with very laudable exactitude, con- 
sidering the different circumstances of the case. In returning 
home, I was troubled with sundry misgivings about the un- 
fortunate Lawrence. The question. What if I should find 
him lying, still on the damp earth, fairly dying of cold and 
exhaustion, or already stark and chill 1 thrust itself most un- 
pleasantly upon my mind, and the appalling possibility pictured 
itself with painful vividness to my imagination as I approached 
the spot where I had left him. But, no ; thank heaven, both 
man and horse were gone, and nothing was left to witness against 
me but two objects — unpleasant enough in themselves, to be 
sure, and presenting a very ugly, not to say murderous appear- 
ance — in one place, the hat saturated with rain and coated with 
mud, indented and broken above the rim by that villainous whip- 
handle ; in another, the crimson handkerchief, soaking in a deeply 
tinctured pool of water ; for much rain had fallen in the interim. 

Bad news fly fast : it was hardly four o’clock when I got 
home, but my mother gravely accosted me with — 


100 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ Oh, Gilbert ! Suck an accident ! Rose has been shopping 
in the village, and she’s heard that Mr, Lawrence has been 
thrown from his horse, and brought home dying.” 

This shocked me a trifle, as you may suppose ; but I was 
comforted to hear that he had frightfully fractured his skull and 
broken a leg ; for assured of the falsehood of this, I trusted the 
rest of the story was equally exaggerated ; and when I heard 
my mother and sister so feelingly deploring his condition, I had 
considerable difficulty in preventing myself from telling them 
the real extent of the injuries, as far as I knew them. 

“ You must go and see him to-moiTow,” said my mother. 

“ Or to-day,” suggested Rose ; “ there’s plenty of time ; and 
you can have the pony, if your horse is tired. Won’t you, 
Gilbert, as soon as you’ve had something to eat 

“ No, no. How can we tell that it isn’t all a false report ? 
It’s highly im ” 

“ Oh, I’m sure it isn’t, for the village is all alive about it ; 
and I saw two people that had seen others that had seen the 
man that found him. That sounds far-fetched ; but it isn’t so, 
when you think of it.” 

“Well, but Lawrence is a good rider; it is not likely he 
would fall from his horse at all ; and if he did, it is highly im- 
probable he should break his bones in that way. It must be a 
gross exaggeration, at least.” 

“ No, but the horse kicked him, or something.” 

“ What ! his quiet little pony I” 

“ How do you know it was that 

“ He seldom rides any other.” 

“ At any rate,” said my mother, “ you will call to-morrow. 
Whether it be true or false, exaggerated or otherwise, we shall 
like to know how he is.” 

“ Fergus may go.” 

“ Why not you V* 

“ He has more time. I am busy just now.’^ 

“ Oh ! but, Gilbert, how can you be so composed about it % 
You won’t mind business, for an hour or two, in a case of this 
sort ; when your fnend is at the point of death.” 

“ He is not, I tell you.” 

“For any thing you know, he may be; you can’t tell till 
you have seen him. At all events, he must have met with some 
terrible accident, and you ought to see him : he’ll take it very 
unkind of you if you don’t.” 


THE TENANT OF VVILDFELL HALL. 


101 


“ Confound it ! I can’t. He and I have not been on good 
terms, of late.” 

“ Oh, my dear boy ! Surely, surely, you are not so unforgiving 
as to caiTy your little differences to such a length as — ” 

“ Little differences, indeed !” I muttered. 

“ Well, but only remember the occasion ! Think how — ” 

“ Well, well, don’t bother me now; I’ll see about it,” I replied. 
And my seeing about it, was to send Fergus next morning, 
with my mother’s compliments, to make the requisite inquiries ; 
for, of course, my going was out of the question, or sending a 
message, either. He brought back intelligence that the young 
squire was laid up with the complicated evils of a broken head 
and certain contusions (occasioned by a fall — of which he did 
not trouble himself to relate the particulars — and the subsequent 
misconduct of his horse), and a severe cold, the consequence of 
lying on the wet ground in the rain ; but there were no broken 
bones, and no immediate prospects of dissolution. 

It was evident then, that for Mrs. Graham’s sake, it was not 
his intention to criminate me. 


CHAPTER XV. 

AN ENCOUNTER AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. 

That day was rainy like its predecessor ; but toward evening 
it began to clear up a little, and the next morning was fair and 
promising. I was out on the hill with the reapers. A light 
wind swept over the corn, and all nature laughed in the sun- 
shine. The lark was rejoicing among the silvery floating clouds. 
The late rain had so sweetly freshened and cleared the air, and 
washed the sky, and left such glittering gems on branch and 
blade, that not even the farmers could have the heart to blame 
it. But no ray of sunshine could reach ray heart, no breeze 
could freshen it ; nothing could fill the void my faith, and hope, 
and joy in Helen Graham had left, or drive away the keen 
regi’ets, and bitter dregs of lingering love that still oppressed it. 

While I stood, v/ith folded arms, abstractedly gazing on the 
undulating swell of the corn not yet disturbed by the reapers, 
something gently pulled my skirts, and a small voice, no longer 
welcome to ray ears, aroused me with the startling words — 


102 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ Mr. Markham, mamma wants you.” 

“ Wants me, Arthur V’ 

“ Yes. Why do you look so queer'?” said he, half laughing, 
half frightened at the unexpected aspect of my face in suddenly 
turning toward him — “ and why have you kept so long away ? 
Come! Won’t you come '?” 

“ I’m busy just now,” I replied, scarce knowing what to 
answer. 

He looked up in childish bewilderment ; but before I could 
speak again, the lady herself was at my side. 

“ Gilbert, I must speak with you !” said she in atone of sup- 
pressed vehemence. 

I looked at her pale cheek and glittering eye, but answered 
nothing. 

“Only for a moment,” pleaded she. “Just step aside into 
this other field.” She glanced at the reapers, some of whom 
were directing looks of impertinent curiosity toward her. “ I 
won’t keep you a minute.” 

I accompanied her through the gap. 

“ Arthur, darling, run and gather those blue bells,” said she, 
pointing to some that were gleaming, at some distance, under 
the hedge along which we walked. The child hesitated, as if 
unwilling to quit my side. “ Go, love !” repeated she more 
urgently, and in a tone, which, though not unkind, demanded 
prompt obedience, and obtained it. 

“ Well, Mrs. Graham ?” said I, calmly and coldly; for, though 
I saw she was miserable, and pitied her, I felt glad to have it in 
my power to torment her. 

She fixed her eyes upon me with a look that pierced me to 
the heart ; and yet it made me smile. 

“ I don’t ask the reason of this change, Gilbert,” said she, 
with bitter calmness. “ I know it too well ; but though I could 
see myself suspected and condemned by every one else, and 
bear it with calmness, I can not endure it from you. Why did 
you not come to hear my explanation on the day I appointed 
to give it?” 

“ Because, I happened, in the interim, to learn all you would 
have told me — and a trifle more, I imagine.” 

“ Impossible, for I would have told you all !” cried she, pas- 
sionately. “ But I won’t now, for I see you are not worthy of 
it 1” 

And her pale lips quivered with agitation. 


THE TENANT OP WILDFELL HALL. 


103 


“ Why not, may I ask 

She repelled my mocking smile with a glance of scornful 
indignation. 

“ Because you never understood me, or you would not soon 
have listened to my traducers. My confidence would be mis- 
placed in you — you are not the man I thought you. Go ! I 
won’t care what you think of me !” 

She turned away, and I went ; for I thought that would tor- 
ment her as much as any thing ; and I believe I was right ; for, 
looking back a minute after, I saw her turn half round, as if 
hoping or expecting to find me still beside her ; and then she 
stood still and cast one look behind. It was a look less ex- 
pressive of anger than of bitter anguish and despair; but I 
immediately assumed an aspect of indifference, and affected to 
be gazing carelessly round me, and I suppose she went on ; 
for after lingering awhile to ’see if she w^ould either come back 
or call, I ventured one more glance, and saw her a good way 
off, moving rapidly up the field with little Arthur running by her 
side, and apparently talking as he w'ent ; but she kept her face 
averted from him, as if to hide some uncontrollable emotion. 
And I returned to my business. 

But I soon began to regret my precipitancy in leaving her so 
soon. It was evident she loved me; probably, she was tired of 
Mr. Lawrence, and wished to exchange him for me; and if I 
had loved and reverenced her less to begin with, the preference 
might have gratified and amused me ; but now, the contrast 
between her outward seeming and her inward mind, as I sup- 
posed — between my former and my present opinion of her, was 
so haiTowing — so distressing to my feelings, that it swallowed 
up every lighter consideration. 

But still, I was curious to know what sort of an explanation 
she would have given me, or would give now, if I pressed her for it; 
how much she would confess, and how she would endeavor to 
excuse herself. I longed to know what to despise, and what to 
admire in her, how much to pity, and how much to hate ; and 
what was more, I would know. I would see her once more, 
and fairly satisfy myself in what light to regard her, before we 
parted. Lost to me she was forever, of course ; but still, I 
could not bear to think that we had parted for the last time, 
with so much unkindness and misery on both sides. That last 
look of hers had sunk into my heart ; I could not forget it. 
But wdiat a fool I was ! Had she not deceived me, injured me 


104 


THE TENANT! OF WILDFELL HALL. 


— blighted my happiness for life ? “ Well, I’ll see her, how- 

ever,” was my concluding resolve, “ but not to-day : to-day and 
to-night, she may think upon her sins, and be as miserable as 
she will : to-morrow I will see her once again, and know some- 
thing more about her. The interview may be serviceable to 
her, or it may not. At any rate, it will give a breath of ex- 
citement to the life she has doomed to stagnation, and may 
calm with certainty some agitating thoughts.” 

I did go on the morrow ; but not till toward evening, after 
the business of the day was concluded, that is, between six and 
seven ; and the westering sun was gleaming redly on the old 
Hall, and flaming in the latticed windows, as I reached it, im- 
parting to the place a cheerfulness not its own. 1 need not 
dilate upon the feelings with which I approached the shrine of 
my former divinity — that spot teeming with a thousand delight- 
ful recollections and glorious dreams — all darkened now by one 
disastrous truth. 

Rachel admitted me into the parlor, and went to call 
her mistress, for she was not there ; but there was her desk 
left open on the little round table beside the high-backed 
chair, with a book laid upon it. Her limited but choice col- 
lection of books was almost as familiar to me as my own ; but 
this volume I had not seen before. I took it up. It was Sir 
Humphrey Davy’s “ Last Days of a Philosopher,” and on the 
first leaf was written, “Frederic Lawrence.” I closed the 
book, but kept it in my hand, and stood facing the door, with 
my back to the fire-place, calmly waiting her arrival ; for I did 
not doubt she would come. And soon I heard her step in the 
hall. My heart was beginning to throb, but I checked it with 
an internal rebuke, and maintained my composure — outwardly, 
at least. She entered, calm, pale, collected. 

“ To what am I indebted for this favor, Mr. Markham said 
she, with such severe but quiet dignity as almost disconcerted 
me ; but I answered with a smile, and impudently enough — 

“ Well, I am come to hear your explanation.” 

“ I told you I would not give it,” said she. “ I said you were 
unworthy of my confidence.” 

“ Oh, very well !” replied I, moving to the door. 

“ Stay a moment,” said she. “ This is the last time I shall 
see you : don’t go just yet.” 

I remained, awaiting her further commands. 

“ Tell me,” resumed she, “ on what ground you believe 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


105 


these things against me ; who told you ; and what did they 
say r 

I paused a moment. She met my eyes unflinchingly, as if her 
bosom had been steeled with conscious innocence. She was re- 
solved to know the worst, and determined to dare it, too. “ I 
can crush that bold spirit,” thought I. But while I secretly 
exulted in my power, I felt disposed to dally with my victim 
like a cat. Showing her the book that I still held in my hand, 
and pointing to the name on the fly leaf, but fixing my eye upon 
her face, I asked — 

“ Do you know that gentleman 

** Of course I do,” replied she, and a sudden flush suffused 
her features — whether of shame or anger I could not tell : it 
rather resembled the latter. “ What next, sir V’ 

“ How long is it since you saw him V* 

“ Who gave you the right to catechise me, on this or any other 
subject V* 

“ Oh, no one ! it’s quite at your option whether to answer or 
not. And now, let me ask, have you heard what has lately be- 
fallen this fiiend of yours 'I because, if you have not — ” 

“ I will not be insulted, Mr. Markham !” cried she, almost 
infuriated at my manner. “ So you had better leave the house 
at once, if you came only for that.” 

“ I did not come to insult you ; I came to hear your ex- 
planation.” 

“And I tell you I won’t give it!” retorted she, pacing the 
room in a state of strong excitement, with her hands clasped 
tightly together, breathing short, and flashing fires of indignation 
from her eyes. “ I will not condescend to explain myself to one 
that can make a jest of such horrible suspicions, and be so easily 
led to entertain them.” 

“ I do not make a jest of them, Mrs. Graham,” returned I, 
dropping at once my tone of taunting sarcasm. “ I heartily wish 
I could find them a jesting matter I And as to being easily led 
to suspect, God only knows what a blind, incredulous fool I have 
hitherto been, perseveringly shutting my eyes and stopping my 
ears against every thing that threatened to shake my confidence 
in you, till proof itself confounded my infatuation !” 

“ What proof, sir 

“ Well, I’ll tell you. You remember that evening when I was 
here last 
“ I do.” 

E* 


106 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ Even then, you dropped some hints that might have opened 
the eyes of a wiser man ; but they had no such effect upon me. I 
went on trusting and believing, hoping against hope, and adoiing 
where I could not comprehend. It so happened, however, that 
after I had left you, I turned back — drawn by pure depth of 
sympathy, and ardor of affection — not daring to intrude my 
presence openly upon you, but unable to resist the temptation 
of catching one glimpse through the window, just to see how 
you were ; for I had left you apparently in great affliction, and I 
partly blamed my own want of forbearance and discretion as the 
cause of it. If I did wrong, love alone was my incentive, and 
the punishment was severe enough ; for it was just as I had 
reached that tree, that you came out into the garden with your 
friend. Not choosing to show myself, under the circumstances, 
I stood still, in the shadow, till you had both passed by.*’ 

“ And how much of our conversation did you hear V’ 

“ I heard quite enough, Helen. And it was well for me that 
I did hear it ; for nothing less could have cured my infatuation. 
I always said and thought, that I would never believe a word 
against you, unless I heard it from your own lips. All the hints 
and affirmations of others, I treated as malignant, baseless slan- 
ders ; your own self-accusations, I believed to be overstrained ; 
and all that seemed unaccountable in your position, I trusted 
that you could account for, if you chose.” 

Mrs. Graham had discontinued her walk. She leaned against 
one end of the chimney-piece, opposite that near which I was 
standing, with her chin resting on her closed hand, her eyes — 
no longer burning with anger, but gleaming with restless excite- 
ment — sometimes glancing at me while I spoke, then coursing 
the opposite wall, or fixed upon the carpet. 

“ You should have come to me, after all,” said she, “ and heard 
what I had to say in my own justification. It was ungenerous 
and wrong to withdraw yourself so secretly and suddenly, im- 
mediately after such ardent protestations of attachment, without 
ever assigning a reason for the change. You should have told 
me all — no matter how bitterly. It would have been better than 
this silence.” 

“To what end should I have done so % You could not have 
enlightened me farther, on the subject which alone concerned 
me ; nor could you have made me discredit the evidence of my 
senses. I desired our intimacy to be discontinued at once, as 
you yourself had acknowledged would probably be the case if 


THE TENANT OF VVILDFELL HALL. 


107 


X knew all ; but I did not wish to upbraid you, though (as you 
also acknowledged) you had deeply wronged me. Yes ; you 
have done me an injury you can never repair — or any other 
either; you have blighted the freshness and promise of youth, 
and made my life a wilderness ! I might live a hundred years, 
but I could never recover from the effects of this withering blow, 
and never forget it ! Hereafter — you smile, Mrs. Graham," 
said I, suddenly stopping short, checked in my passionate dec- 
lamation by unutterable feelings to behold her actually smiling 
at the picture of the ruin she had wrought. 

“ Did I replied she, looking seriously up, “ I was not aware 
of it. If I did, it was not for pleasure at the thoughts of the 
harm I had done you. Heaven knows I have had torment 
enough at the bare possibility of that ! It was for joy to find 
that you had some depth of soul and feeling, after all, and to 
hope that I had not been utterly mistaken in your worth. But 
smiles and tears are so alike with me ; they are neither of them 
confined to any particular feelings : I often cry when I am hap- 
py, and smile when I am sad." 

She looked at me again, and seemed to expect a reply ; but 
I continued silent. 

“ Would you be very glad," resumed she, “ to find that you 
were mistaken in your conclusions 

“ How can you ask it, Helen ]" 

" I don’t say I can clear myself altogether," said she, speak- 
ing low and fast, while her heart beat visibly and her bosom 
heaved with excitement. “ But would you be glad to discover 
I was better than you think me 

“ Any thing, that could, in the least degree, tend to restore my 
former opinion of you, to excuse the regard I still feel for you, 
and alleviate the pangs of unutterable regret that accompany it, 
would be only too gladly — too eagerly received !" 

Her cheeks burned and her whole frame trembled, now, with 
excess of agitation. She did not speak, but flew to her desk, 
and snatching thence what seemed a thick album or manuscript 
volume, hastily tore away a few leaves from the end, and thrust 
the rest into my hand, saying, “ You needn’t read it all ; but 
take it home with you," and hurried from the room. But 
when I had left the house, and was proceeding down the walk, 
she opened the window and called me back. It was only to 
say — 

“ Bring it back when you have read it ; and don’t breathe a 


108 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


word of what it tells you to any living being — I tmst to your 
honor.’^ 

Before I could answer, she had closed the casement and 
tunied away. I saw her cast herself back in the old oak chair, 
and cover her face with her hands. Her feelings had been 
wrought to a pitch that rendered it necessary to seek relief in 
tears. 

Panting with eageraess, and struggling to repress my hopes, 
I hurried home, and rushed up-stairs to my room, having first 
provided myself with a candle, though it was scarcely twilight 
yet ; then shut and bolted the door, determined to tolerate no 
interruption ; and sitting down before the table, opened out my 
prize and delivered myself up to its perusal ; first, hastily turn- 
ing over the leaves and snatching a sentence here and there, 
and then setting myself steadily to read it through. 

I have it now before me ; and though you could not, of course, 
peruse it with half the interest that 1 did, I know you would not 
be satisfied with an abbreviation of its contents, and you shall 
have the whole, save, perhaps, a few passages here and there 
of merely temporal interest to the writer, or such as would serve 
to encumber the story rather than elucidate it. It begins some- 
what abruptly, thus — but we will resei-ve its commencement for 
another chapter, and call it — 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE WARNINGS OF EXPERIENCE. 

June 1st, 1821. — We have just returned to Staningley ; that 
is, we returned some days ago, and I am not yet settled, and 
feel as if I never should be. We left town sooner than was in- 
tended, in consequence of my uncle’s indisposition. I wonder 
what would have been the result if we had staid the full time. 
I am quite ashamed of my new-sprung distaste for country life. 
All my former occupations seem so tedious and dull, my former 
amusements so insipid and unprofitable. I can not enjoy my 
music, because there is no one to hear it. I can not enjoy my 
walks, because there is no one to meet. I can not enjoy my 
books, because they have not power to aiTest my attention : my 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


109 


head is so haunted with the recollections of the last few weeks 
that I can not attend to them. My drawing suits me best, for I 
can draw and think at the same time ; and if my productions 
can not now be seen by any one but myself and those who do 
not care about them, they, possibly, may be, hereafter. But 
then, there is one face I am always trying to paint or to sketch, 
and always without success ; and that vexes me. As for the 
owner of that face, I can not get him out of my mind — and, in- 
deed, I never try. I wonder whether he ever thinks of me ; . 
and I wonder whether I shall ever see him again. And then 
might follow a train of other wonderments — questions for time 
and fate to answer, concluding with : — Supposing all the rest be 
answered in the affirmative, I wonder whether I shall ever re- 
pent it, as my aunt would tell me I should, if she knew what I 
was thinking about. How distinctly I remember our conversa- 
tion that evening before our departure for town, when we were 
sitting together over the fire, my uncle having gone to bed with 
a slight attack of the gout. 

“ Helen,” said she, after a thoughtful silence, “ do you ever 
think about marriage 

“ Yes, aunt, often.” 

“ And do you ever contemplate the possibility of being mar- 
ried yourself, or engaged, before the season is over ]” 

“Sometimes; but I don^t think it at all likely that I ever 
shall.” 

“ Why so 1” 

“ Because, I imagine there must be only a very, veiy few men 
in the world, that I should like to many ; and of those few, it 
is ten to one I may never be acquainted with one ; or if I should, 
it is twenty to one he may not happen to be single, or to take a 
fancy to me.” 

“ That is no argument at all. It may be very true — and I 
hope is true — that there are very few men whom you would 
choose to marry, of yourself. It is not, indeed, to be supposed 
that you would wish to marry any one, till you were asked ; 
a girl’s affections should never be won unsought. But when 
they are sought — when the citadel of the heart is fairly besieged 
— it is apt to surrender sooner than the owner is aware of, and 
often against her better judgment, and in opposition to all her 
preconceived ideas of what she could have loved, unless she be 
extremely careful and discreet. Now I want to warn you, 
Helen, of these things, and to exhort you to be watchful and 


110 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


circumspect from the very commencement of your career, and 
not to suffer your heart to be stolen from you by the first foolish 
or unprincipled person that covets the possession of it. You 
know, my dear, you are only just eighteen; there is plenty of 
time before you, and neither your uncle nor I are in any hurry 
to get you off our hands ; and, I may venture to say, there will 
be no lack of suitors ; for you can boast a good family, a pretty 
considerable fortune and expectations, and, I may as well tell 
you likewise — for if I don’t others will — that you have a fair 
share of beauty, besides — and I hope you may never have cause 
to regret it ! ” 

“ I hope not, aunt ; but why should you fear it 

“ Because, my dear, beauty is that quality which, next to 
money, is generally the most attractive to the worst kinds of 
men ; and, therefore, it is likely to entail a great deal of trouble 
on the possessor.” 

“ Have you been troubled in that way, aunt 

“ No, Helen,” said she, with reproachful gravity, “ but I know 
many that have ; and some, through carelessness, have been the 
wretched victims of deceit; and some, through weakness, have 
fallen into snares and temptations terrible to relate.” 

“ Well, I shall be neither careless nor weak.” 

“ Remember Peter, Helen ! Don’t boast, but watch. Keep 
a guard over your eyes and ears as the inlets of your heart, and 
over your lips as the outlet, lest they betray you in a moment 
of unwariness. Receive, coldly and dispassionately, every atten- 
tion, till you have ascertained and duly considered the worth of 
the aspirant ; and let your affection be consequent upon appro- 
bation alone. First study ; then approve ; then love. Let your 
eyes be blind to all external attractions, your ears deaf to all 
the fascinations of flattery and light discourse. These are noth- 
ing, and worse than nothing — snares and wiles of the tempter, 
to lure the thoughtless to their own destruction. Principle is 
the first thing, after all ; and next to that, good sense, respecta- 
bility, and moderate wealth. If you should many the hand- 
somest, and most accomplished, and superficially agreeable mar 
in the world, you little know the misery that would overwhelm 
you, if, after all, you should find him to be a worthless reprobate, 
or even an impracticable fool.” 

“ But what are all the poor fools and reprobates to do, aunt I 
If every body followed your advice the world would soon come 
to an end.” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


Ill 


“ Never fear, my dear ! The male fools and reprobates will 
never want for partners while there are so many of the other 
sex to match them ; but do you follow my advice. And this is 
no subject for jesting, Helen ; I am soiTy to see you treat the 
matter in that light way. Believe me, matrimony is a seriom 
things And she spoke it so seriously that one might have fan- 
cied she had known it to her cost ; but I asked no more imper- 
tinent questions, and merely answered — 

“ I know it is ; and I know there is truth and sense in what 
you say ; but you need not fear for me, for I not only should 
think it wrong to marry a man that was deficient in sense or in 
principle, but I should never be tempted to do it ; for I could 
not like him, if he were ever so handsome and ever so charming in 
other respects ; I should hate him, depise him, pity him — any 
thing but love him. My affections not only ought to be founded 
on approbation, but they will and must be so; for without 
approving I can not love. It is needless to say I ought to be 
able to respect and honor the man I marry, as well as love him, 
for I can not love him without. So set your mind at rest.” 

“ I hope it may be so,” answered she. 

“ I know it is so,” persisted I. 

“ You have not been tried yet, Helen. We can but hope,” 
said she, in her cold, cautious way. 

I was vexed at her incredulity; but I am not sure her doubts 
were entirely without sagacity ; I fear I have found it much 
easier to remember her advice than to profit by it. Indeed, I 
have sometimes been led to question the soundness of her doc- 
trines on those subjects. Her counsels may be good, as far as 
they go — in the main points at least ; but there are some things 
she has overlooked in her calculations. I wonder if she was 
ever in love. 

I commenced my career — or my first campaign, as my uncle 
calls it — kindling with bright hopes and fancies, chiefly raised 
by this conversation, and full of confidence in my own dis- 
cretion. At first, I was delighted with the novelty and excite- 
ment of our London life ; but soon I began to weary of its 
mingled turbulence and constraint, and sigh for the freshness 
and freedom of home. My new acquaintances, both male and 
female, disappointed my expectations, and vexed and depressed 
me by turns ; for I soon grew tired of studying their peculiari- 
ties, and laughing at their foibles — particularly as I was obliged 
to keep my criticisms to myself, for ray aunt would not hear 


112 


THE TENANT OP VVILDFELL HALL. 


them ; and they — the ladies especially — appeared so pro- 
vokingly mindless, and heartless, and artificial. The gentle- 
men seemed better, but perhaps it was because I knew them 
less, perhaps because they flattered me ; but I did not fall in 
love with any of them, and if their attentions pleased me one 
moment, they provoked me the next, because they put me out 
of humor with myself, by revealing my vanity, and making me 
fear I was becoming like some of the ladies I so heartily 
despised. 

There was one elderly gentleman that annoyed me very 
much ; a rich old friend of my uncle’s, who, I believe, thought 
I could not do better than marry him ; but, besides being old, 
he was ugly and disagreeable, and wicked, I am sure, though 
my aunt scolded me for saying so ; but she allowed he was no 
saint. And there was another, less hateful, but still more tire- 
some, because she favored him, and was always thrusting him 
upon me, and sounding his praises in my ears, Mr. Boarham, 
by name, Bore’em as I prefer spelling it, for a terrible bore he 
was : I shudder still, at the remembrance of his voice, drone, 
drone, drone, in my ear, while he sat beside me, prosing away 
by the half hour together, and beguiling himself with the 
notion that he was improving my mind by useful information, 
or, impressing his dogmas upon me, and reforming my errors 
of judgment, or, perhaps, that he was talking down to my level, 
and amusing me with entertaining discourse. Yet he was a 
decent man enough, in the main, I dare say ; and if he had 
kept his distance, I never would have hated him. As it was, it 
was almost impossible to help it ; for he not only bothered me 
<^vith the infliction of his own presence, but he kept me from 
the enjoyment of more agreeable society. 

One night, however, at a ball, he had been more than usually 
tormenting, and my patience was quite exhausted. It appeared 
as if the whole evening was fated to be insupportable ; I had 
just had one dance with an empty-headed coxcomb, and then 
Mr. Boarham had come upon me, and seemed determined to 
cling to me for the rest of the night. He never danced him- 
self, and there he sat, poking his head in my face, and impress- 
ing all beholders with the idea that he was a confirmed, ac- 
knowledged lover; my aunt looking complacently on all the 
time, and wishing him God-speed. In vain I attempted to 
drive him away by giving a loose to my exasperated feelings, 
even to positive radeness : nothing could convince him that his 


THE TENANT OP WILDFELL HALL. 


113 ^ 


presence was disagreeable. Sullen silence was taken for 
rapt attention, and gave him greater room to talk ; sharp 
answers were received as smart sallies of girlish vivacity, that 
only required an indulgent rebuke ; and flat contradictions were 
but as oil to the flames, calling forth new strains of argument 
to support his dogmas, and bringing down upon me endless 
floods of reasoning to overwhelm me with conviction. 

But there was one present who seemed to have a better ap- 
preciation of my frame of mind. A gentleman stood by, who 
had been watching our conference for some time, evidently 
much amused at my companion’s remorseless pertinacity and 
my manifest annoyance, and laughing to himself at the asperity 
and uncompromising spirit of my replies. At length, how 
ever, he withdrew, and went to the lady of the house, ap 
parently for the purpose of asking an introduction to me, for, 
shortly after, they both came up, and. she introduced him as 
Mr. Huntingdon, the son of a late friend of my uncle’s. He 
asked me to dance. I gladly consented, of course ; and he 
was my companion during the remainder of my stay, which 
was not long, for my aunt, as usual, insisted upon an early de- 
parture. 

I was sorry to go, for I had found my new acquaintance 
a very lively and entertaining companion. There was a certain, 
graceful ease and freedom about all he said and did, that gave 
a sense of repose and expansion to the mind, after so much 
constraint and formality as 1 had been doomed to suffer. — 
There might be, it is true, a little too much careless boldness 
in his manner and address, but I was in so good a humor, and 
so grateful for my late deliverance from Mr. Boarham, that it 
did not anger me. 

“ Well, Helen, how do you like Mr. Boarham now"?” said 
my aunt, as we took our seats in the carriage and drove away. 

“ Worse than ever,” I replied. 

She looked displeased, but said no more on that subject. 

“ Who was the gentleman you danced with last,” resumed 
she, after a pause, “ that was so officious in helping you on 
with your shawl 1” 

“ He was not officious at all, aunt : he never attempted to 
help me, till he saw Mr. Boarham coming to do so ; and then 
he stepped laughingly forward and said, ‘ Come, I’ll preserve 
you from that infliction.’ ” 

“ Who was it, I ask V said she, with frigid gravity. 


114 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ It was Mr. Huntingdon, the son of uncle’s old friend.” 

I have heard your uncle speak of young Mr. Huntingdon. 
Pve heard him say, ‘ He’s a fine lad, that young Huntingdon, 
but a bit wildish, I fancy.’ So I’d have you beware.” 

“ What does ‘ a bit wildish’ mean I inquired. 

“ It means destitute of principle, and prone to eveiy vice 
that is common to youth.” 

“ But I’ve heard uncle say he was a sad wild fellow himself, 
when he was young.” 

She sternly shook her head. 

“ He was jesting then, I suppose,” said I, “ and here he was 
speaking at random — at least, I can not believe there is any 
harm in those laughing blue eyes.” 

“ False reasoning, Helen !” said she with a sigh. 

“ Well, we ought to be charitable, you know, aunt — be- 
sides, I don’t think it is false : I am an excellent physiognomist, 
and I always judge of people’s characters by their looks — not 
by whether they are handsome or ugly, but by the general cast 
of the countenance. For instance, I should know by your 
countenance that you were not of a cheerful, sanguine dis- 
position ; and I should know by Mr. Wilmot’s, that he was a 
worthless old reprobate, and by Mr. Boarham’s that he was not 
an agreeable companion, and by Mr. Huntingdon’s that he was 
neither a fool nor a knave, though, possibly, neither a sage nor a 
saint. But that is no matter to me, as I am not likely to meet 
him again, unless as an occasional partner in the ball-room.” 

It was not so, however, for I met him again next morning. 
He came to call upon my uncle, apologizing for not having 
done so before, by saying he was only lately retunied from the 
continent, and had not heard, till the previous night, of my 
uncle’s arrival in town ; and after that I often met him ; some- 
times in public, sometimes at home ; for he was very assiduous 
in paying his respects to his old friend, who did not, however, 
consider himself greatly obliged by the attention. 

“ I wonder what the deuce the lad means by coming so 
often,” he would say— “ can you tell, Helen 1 — Hey 1 He 
wants none of my company, nor I his — that’s certain.” 

“ I wish you’d tell him so, then,” said my aunt. 

“ Why, what for 'I If I don’t want him, somebody does, 
mayhap (winking at me). Besides, he’s a pretty tidy fortune, 
Peggy, you know — not such a catch as Wilmot, but then 
Helen won’t hear of that match ; for, somehow, these old 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL {lALL. 


115 


chaps don’t go down with the girls — with all their money, and 
their experien'te to boot. I’ll bet any thing she’d rather have this 
young fellow without a penny, than Wilmot with his house full 
of gold. Wouldn’t you, NelH” 

“Yes uncle; but that’s not saying much for Mr. Hunting- 
don, for I’d rather be an old maid and a pauper, than Mrs. 
Wilmot.” 

“ And Mrs. Huntingdon ] What would you rather be than 
Mrs. Huntingdon 1 eh 

“ I’ll tell you when I’ve considered the matter.” 

“Ah! it needs consideration then. But, come now, would 
you rather be an old maid — let alone the pauper 1” 

“ I can’t tell till I’m asked.” 

And I left the room immediately, to escape further examin- 
ation. But five minutes after, in looking from my window, I 
beheld Mr. Boarham coming up to the door. I waited nearly 
half an hour in uncomfortable suspense, expecting every minute 
to be called, and vainly longing to hear him go. Then, foot- 
steps were heard on the stairs, and my aunt entered the room 
with a solemn countenance, and closed the door behind her. 

“ Here is Mr. Boarham, Helen,” said she. “ He wishes to 
see you.” 

“ Oh, aunt 1 Can’t you tell him I’m indisposed % I’m sure I 
am — to see him’' 

“ Nonsense, my dear 1 this is no trifling matter. He is come 
on a very important errand ; to ask your hand in mamage, of 
your uncle and me.” 

“ I hope my uncle and you told him it was not in your pow- 
er to give it. What right had he to ask any one before me ?” 

“ Helen 1” 

“ What did my uncle say 

“He said he would not interfere in the matter; if you liked 
to accept Mr. Boarham’s obliging offer, you ” 

“ Did he say obliging offer V’ 

“ No ; he said if you liked to take him you might ; and if not, 
you might please yourself.” 

“ He said right — and what did you say 

“ It is no matter what I said. What will you say 1 — that is 
the question. He is now waiting to ask you himself; but con- 
sider well before you go ; and if you intend to refuse him, give 
me your reasons.” 

“ I shall refuse him, of course, but you must tell me how, for 


116 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


I want to be civil and yet decided ; and when I’ve got rid of 
him, I’ll give you my reasons afterward.” 

“ But stay, Helen ; sit down a little, and compose yourself. 
Mr. Boarham is in no particular hurry, for he has little doubt of 
your acceptance ; and I want to speak with you. Tell me, my 
dear, what are your objections to him ] Do you deny that he 
is an upiight, honorable man V’ 

“ No.” 

“ Do you deny that he is a sensible, sober, respectable 'i” 

“ No ; he may be all this, but — ” 

“ Bui, Helen ! How many such men do you expect to meet 
with in the world 'i Upright, honorable, sensible, sober, respect- 
able ! Is tMs such an every-day character, that you should re- 
ject the possessor of such noble qualities, without a moment’s 
hesitation^ Yes, nodle I may call them; for, think of the full 
meaning of each, and how many inestimable virtues they in- 
clude (and I might add many more to the list), and consider 
that all this is laid at your feet : it is in your power to secure this 
inestimable blessing for life— -a worthy and excellent husband, 
who loves you tenderly, but not too fondly, so as to blind him to 
your faults, and will be your guide throughout life’s pilgrimage, 
and your partner in eternal bliss ! Think how — ” 

“ But I hate him, aunt,” said I, interrupting this unusual flow 
of eloquence. 

“ Hate him, Helen ! Is this a Christian spirit 1 — you hate 
him ! — and he so good a man !” 

“ I don’t hate him as a man, but as a husband. As a man, I 
love him so much that I wish him a better vrife than I — one as 
good as himself, or better, if you think that possible — provided 
she could like him ; but I never could, and therefore — ” 

“ But why not? What objections do you find ?” 

“ Firstly, he is, at least, forty years old — considerably more, 1 
should think — and I am but eighteen : secondly, he is narrow- 
minded and bigoted in the extreme ; thirdly, his tastes and feel- 
ings are wholly dissimiliar to mine ; fourthly, his looks, voice, 
and manner are particularly displeasing to me ; and finally, I 
have an aversion to his whole person that I never can sur- 
mount.” 

“ Then you ought to surmount it ! And please to compare 
him for a moment with Mr. Huntingdon, and, good looks apart 
— (which contribute nothing to the merit of the man, or to the 
happiness of married life, and which you have so often pr^ - 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


117 


fessed to hold in light esteem — tell me which is the better 
man.” 

“ I have no doubt Mr. Huntingdon is a much better man than 
you think him ; but we are not talking about him, now, but 
about Mr. Boarham; and, as I would rather, gi'ow, live, and 
die in single blessedness than be his wife, it is but right that I 
should tell him so at once, and put him out of suspense — so let 
me go.” 

“ But don’t give him a flat denial ; he has no idea of such a 
thing, and it would offend him greatly : say you have no thoughts 
of matrimony at present — ” 

“ But I have thoughts of it.” 

“ Or that you desire a further acquaintance.” 

“ But I don’t desire a further acquaintance — quite the con- 
tary.” 

And without waiting for further admonitions, I left the room, 
and went to seek Mr. Boarham. He was walking up and down 
the drawing room, humming snatches of tunes, and nibbling 
the end of his cane. 

“ My dear young lady,” said he, bowing and smirking with 
great complacency. “ I have your kind guardian’s permission — ” 

“ I know, sir,” said I, wishing to shorten the scene as much 
as possible, “ and I am greatly obliged for your preference, 
but must beg to decline the honor you wish to confer ; for I 
think we were not made for each other, as you yourself would 
shortly discover if the experiment were tried.” 

My aunt was right : it was quite evident he had had little 
doubt of an acceptance, and no idea of a positive denial. He 
was amazed — astounded at such an answer, but too incredulous 
to be much offended ; and after a little humming and hawing, 
he returned to the attack. 

“ I know, my dear, that there exists a considerable disparity 
between us in years, in temperament, and perhaps some other 
things ; but let me assure you, I shall not be severe to mark 
the faults and foibles of a young and ardent nature such as 
yours, and while I acknowledge them to myself, and even 
rebuke them with all a father’s care, believe me, no youthful 
lover could be more tenderly indulgent toward the object of his 
affections, than I to you ; and, on the other hand, let me hope 
that my more experienced years and graver habits of reflection 
will be no disparagement in your eyes, as I shall endeavor to 
make them all conducive to your happiness. Come now ! 


118 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


What do you say ? Let us have no young lady’s affectations 
and caprices, but speak out at once.” 

“ I will, but only to repeat what I said before, that I am 
certain we were not made for each other.” 

“ You really think so ?” 

“Ido.” 

“ But you don’t know me ; you wish for a further acquaint- 
ance — a longer time to — ” 

“ No, I don’t. I know you as well as I ever shall, and better 
than you know me, or you would never dream of uniting your- 
self to one so incongi'uous — so utterly unsuitable to you in 
every way.” 

“ But my dear young lady, I don’t look for perfection, I can 
excuse — ” 

“ Thank you, Mr. Boarham, but I won’t trespass upon your 
goodness. You may save your indulgence and consideration 
for some more worthy object, that won’t tax them so heavily.” 

“ But let me beg you to consult your aunt ; that excellent 
lady, I am sure, will — ” 

“ I have consulted her ; and I know her wishes coincide 
with yours ; but in such important matters I take the liberty of 
judging for myself; and no persuasion can alter my inclinations, 
or induce me to believe' that such a step would be conducive to 
my happiness, or yours ; and I wonder that a man of youi* 
experience and discretion should think of choosing such a wife.” 

“ Ah, well !” said he, “ I have sometimes wondered at that 
myself. I have .sometimes said to myself, ‘ Now, Boarham, 
what is this you’re after i Take care, man; look before you 
leap ! This is a sweet, bewitching creature, but remember, 
the brightest attractions to the lover too often prove the hus- 
band’s greatest torments.’ I assure you my choice has not been 
made without much reasoning and reflection. The seeming 
imprudence of the match has cost me many an anxious thought 
by day, and many a sleepless hour by night ; but at length I 
satisfied myself that it was not, in very deed, imprudent. I 
saw ray sweet girl was not without her faults, but of these her 
youth, I trusted, was not one, but rather an eaniest of virtues 
yet unblown ; a strong ground of presumption that her little 
defects of temper, and errors of judgment, opinion, or manner 
were not irremediable, but might easily be removed or mitigated 
by the patient efforts of a watchful and j udici ous adviser, and 
where I failed to enlighten and control, I thought I might under- 


119 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 

_Wi 

take to pardon for the sake of fter many excellencies. There- 
fore, my dearest girl, since satisfied, why should you object 
— on ray account, at least.”^ 

“ But to tell you the truth, Mr. Boarham, it is on my own 
- account that I principally object ; so let us drop the sub- 

ject,” I would have said, “ for it is worse than useless to pursue 
it any further,” but he pertinaciously interrupted me with — 

“ But why so ^ I would love you, cheiish you, protect you,” 
&c., &c. 

I shall not trouble myself to put down all that passed between 
us. Suffice it to say, that I found, him very troublesome, and 
very hard to convince that I really meant what I said, and 
really was so obstinate and blind to my own interests, that there 
was no shadow of a chance that either he or my aunt would 
ever be able to overcome my objections. Indeed, I am not 
sure that I succeeded after all, though wearied with his so 
pertinaciously returning to the same point, and repeating the 
same arguments over and over again, forcing me to reiterate 
the same replies, I at length turned short and sharp upon him, 
and my last words were — 

“ I tell you plainly that it can not be. No consideration can 
induce me to marry against my inclinations. 1 respect you — 
at least, I would respect you, if you would behave like a sensible 
man-wbut I can not love you, and never could ; and th.e more 
you talk, the farther you repel me ; so pray don’t say any more 
about it.” 

Whereupon, he wished me a good morning and withdrew, 
disconcerted and offended, no doubt ; but surely it was not my 
fault 


CHAPTER XVII. 

FURTHER WARNINGS. 

The next day, I accompanied my uncle and aunt to a dinner 
party at Mr. Wilmot’s. He had two ladies staying with him, 
his niece Annabella, a fine dashing girl, or rather young woman, 
of some five-and-twenty, too great a flirt to be married, accord- 
ing to her own assertion, but greatly admired by the gentle- 
men,- who universally pronounced her a splendid woman ; and 


120 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


her gentle cousin Milicent Hargrave, who had taken a violent 
fancy to me, mistaking me for something vastly better than I 
was. And I, in return was very fond of her. I should entirely 
exclude poor Milicent in my general animadversions against 
the ladies of my acquaintance. But it was not on her account, 
or her cousin’s, that I have mentioned the party : it was for the 
sake of another of Mr. Wilmot’s guests, to wit, Mr. Hunting- 
don. I have good reason to remember his presence there, for 
this was the last time I saw him. 

He did not sit near me at dinner; for it was his fate to hand 
in a capacious old dowager, and mine to be handed in by Mr. 
G rimsby, a friend of his, but a man I very greatly disliked: there 
was a sinister cast in his countenance, and a mixture of lurking 
ferocity and fulsome insincerity in his demeanor, that I could 
not away with. What a tiresome custom that is, by-the-by — 
one among the many sources of factitious annoyance of this 
ultra-civilized life. If the gentlemen must lead the ladies into 
the dining-room, why can not they take those they like best % 

I am not sure, however, that Mr. Huntingdon would have 
taken me, if he had been at liberty to make his own selection. 
It is quite possible he might have chosen Miss Wilmot ; for she 
seemed bent upon engrossing his attention to herself, and he 
seemed nothing loath to pay the homage she demanded. I 
thougl\t so, at least, when 1 saw how they talked and laughed, 
and glanced across the table, to the neglect and evident umbrage 
of their respective neighbors ; and afterward, as the gentlemen 
joined us in the drawing-room, when she, immediately upon his 
entrance, loudly called upon him to be the arbiter of a dispute 
between herself and another lady, and he answered the sum- 
mons with alaciity, and decided the question without a moment’s 
hesitation in her favor — though, to my thinking, she was obvi- 
ously in the wrong — and then stood chatting familiarly with 
her and a group of other ladies ; while I sat with Milicent 
Hargrave, at the opposite end of the room, looking over the 
latter’s drawings and aiding her with rny critical observations 
and advice, at her particular desire. But in spite of my efforts 
to remain composed, my attention wandered from the drawings 
to the merry group, and against my better judgment my wrath 
rose, and doubtless, my countenance lowered ; for Milicent, 
observing that I must be tired of her daubs and scratches, begged 
I would join the company now, and defer the examination of 
the remainder' to another opportunity. But while I was assur- 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


121 


ing her that I had no wish to join them, and was not tired, Mr. 
Huntingdon himself came up to the little round table at which 
we sat. 

“ Are these yours V’ said he, carelessly taking up one of the 
drawings. 

“ No, they are Miss Hargrave’s.” 

“ Oh ! well, let’s have a look at them.” 

And, regardless of Miss Hargrave’s protestations, that they 
were not worth looking at, he drew a chair to my side, and 
receiving the drawings, one by one from my hand, succes- 
sively scanned them over, and threw them on the table, but said 
not a word about tliem, though he was talking all the time. I 
don’t know what Milicent Hargrave thought of such conduct, 
but I found his conversation extremely interesting, though, as T 
afterward discovered, when I came to analyze it, it was chiefly 
confined to quizzing the difierent members of the company 
present; and albeit he made some clever remarks, and some 
excessively droll ones, I do not think the whole would appear 
any thing very particular, if written here, without the adventi- 
tious aids of look, and tone, and gesture, and that ineffable 
but indefinite charm, which cast a halo over all he did and said, 
and which would have made it a delight to look in his face, and 
hear the music of his voice, if he had been talking positive non- 
sense — and which, moreover, made me feel so bitter against 
my aunt when she put a stop to this enjoyment, by coming com- 
posedly forward, under pretense of wishing to see the drawings, 
that she cared and knew nothing about; and while making 
believe to examine them, addressing herself to Mr. Huntingdon, 
with one of her coldest and most repellent aspects, and begin- 
ning a series of the most commonplace and formidably formal 
questions and observations, on purpose to wrest his attention 
from me — on purpose to vex me, as I thought : and having now 
looked through the portfolio, I left them to their tete-a-tete, and 
seated myself on a sofa, quite apart from the company — never 
thinking how strange such conduct would appear, but merely to 
indulge, at first, the vexation of the moment, and subsequently 
to enjoy ray private thoughts. 

But I w'as not left long alone, for Mr. Wilmot, of all men the 
least welcome, took advantage of my isolated position to come 
and plant himself beside me. I had flattered myself that 1 bad 
so effectually repulsed his advances on all former occasions, 
that I had nothing more to apprehend from his unfortunate 


122 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


predilection ; but it seems I was mistaken : so great was his 
confidence, either in his wealth or his remaining powers of at- 
traction, and so firm his conviction of feminine weakness, that 
he. .thought himself warranted to return to the siege, which he 
did with renovated ardor, enkindled by the quantity of wine he 
had drunk — a circumstance that rendered him infinitely the 
more disgusting. But greatly as I abhorred him, at that moment 
I did not like to treat him with rudeness, as I was now his 
guest, and had just been enjoying his hospitality; and I was no 
hand at a polite but determined rejection, nor would it have 
greatly availed me if I had ; for he was too coarse-minded to 
take any repulse that was not as plain and positive as his own 
effrontery. The consequence was, that he waxed more ful- 
somely tender, and more repulsively warm, and I was driven to 
the very verge of desperation, and was about to say, I know 
not what, when I felt my hand, that hung over the arm of the sofa, 
suddenly taken by another and gently but fervently pressed. In- 
stinctively, I guessed who it was, and on looking up, was less 
surprised than delighted to see Mr. Huntingdon smiling upon me. 
It was like turning from some purgatorial fiend to an angel of 
light, come to announce that the season of torment was past. 

“ Helen,” said he (he frequently called me Helen, and I never 
resented the freedom), “ I want you to look at this picture: Mr. 
Wilmot will excuse you a moment, I’m sure.” 

I rose with alacrity. He drew my arm within his, and led 
me across the room to a splendid painting of Vandyke’s that I 
had noticed before, but not sufficiently examined. After a mo- 
ment of silent contemplation, I was beginning to comment on 
its beauties and peculiarities, when, playfully pressing the hand 
he still retained within his arm, he interrupted me with — 

“ Never mind the picture, it was not for that I brought you 
here ; it was to get you away from that scoundrelly old profli- 
gate yonder, who is looking as if he would like to challenge me 
for the affront.” 

“ I am veij much obliged to you,” said I. “ This is twice 
you have delivered me from such unpleasant companionship.” 

“ Don t be too thankful,” he answered: “it is not all kind- 
ness to you ; it is partly from a feeling of spite to your torment- 
ors that makes me delighted to do the old fellows a bad turn, 
though I don’t think I have any great reason to dread them as 
rivals. Have I, Helen ?” 

“ You know I detest them both.” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


123 


“ And me.” 

“ I have no reason to detest t/ow.” 

“ But what are your sentiments toward me] Helen — speak] 
How do you regard me ]” 

And again he pressed my hand; but I feared there was more 
of conscious power than tenderness in his demeanor, and I felt 
he had no right to extort a confession of attachment from me 
when he had made no correspondent avowal himself) and knew 
not what to answer. At last I said — 

“ How do you regard me 

“ Sweet angel, I adore you ! I — ” 

“ Helen, I want you a moment,” said the distinct, low voice 
of my aunt, close beside us. And I left him, muttering maledic- 
tions against his evil angel. 

“Well aunt, what is it] What do you want]” said I, fol- 
lowing her to the embrasure of the window. 

“ I want you to join the company, when you are fit to be 
seen,” returned she, severely regarding me; “but please to stay 
here a little till that shocking color is somewhat abated, and your 
eyes have recovered something of their natural expression. I 
should be ashamed for any one to see you in your present state.” 

Of course such a remark had no effect in reducing the “shock- 
ing color ;” on the contrary, I felt my face glow with redoubled 
fires, kindled' by a complication of emotions, of which indignant, 
swelling anger was the chief. 1 offered no reply, however, but 
pushed aside the curtain and looked into the night — or rather, 
into the, lamp-lit square. 

“ Was Mr. Huntingdon proposing to you, Helen ]” inquired 
my too watchful relative. 

“ No.” 

“ What was he saying, then ] I heard something very like it.” 

“ I don’t know what he w'ould have said, if you hadn’t inter- 
rupted him.” 

“ And would you have accepted him, Helen, if he had pro- 
posed ]” 

“ Of course not — without consulting uncle and you.” 

“ Oh ! I’m glad, my dear, you have so much prudence left. 
Well now,” she added, after a moment’s pause, “ you have 
made yourself conspicuous enough for one evening. The ladies 
are directing inquiring glances toward us at this moment, 1 see. 
I shall join them. Do you come too, when you are sufficiently 
composed to appear as usual.” 


124 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. ^ 


“ I am SO now.” 

Speak gently then ; and don’t look so malicious,” said my 
calm, but provoking aunt. “We shall return home shortly, and 
then,” she added with solemn significance, “I have much more to 
say to you.” 

So I went home prepared for a formidable lecture. Little 
was said by either party in the carriage during our short transit 
homeward ; but when I had entered my room, and thrown my- 
self into an easy chair to reflect on the events of the day, my 
aunt followed me thither, and having dismissed Rachel, who 
was carefully stowing away my ornaments, closed the door; and 
placing a chair beside me, or rather at right angles with mine, 
sat down. With due deference I offered her my more com- 
modious seat. She declined it, and thus opened the confer- 
ence : — 

“ Do you remember, Helen, our conversation the night but 
one before we left Staningley 1” 

“ Yes, aunt.” 

“ And do you remember how I warned you against letting 
your heart be stolen from you by those unworthy of its posses- 
sion ; and fixing your affections where approbation did not go 
before, and where reason and judgment wiHiheld their sanc- 
tion]” 

“ Yes, but my reason — ” 

“ Pardon me — and do you remember assuring me that there 
was no occasion for uneasiness on your account ; for you should 
never be tempted to marry a man who was deficient in sense 
or principle, however handsome or charming in other respects 
he might be, for you could not love him, you should hate — 
despise — pity — any thing but love him — were not those your 
words ]” 

“ Yes, but — ” 

“ And did you not say that your affection must be founded 
on approbation ; and that unless you could approve, and honor, 
and respect, you could not love ]” 

“ Yes, but I do approve, and honor, and respect — ” 

. “ How so, my dear 1 is Mr. Huntingdon a good man ]” 

“ He is a much better man than you think him.” 

“ That is nothing to the purpose. Is he a good man ]” 

“ Yes — in some respects. He has a good disposition.” 

“ Is he a man of principle ?” 

“ Perhaps not, exactly ; but it is only for want of thought < 


THE TENANT OP WILDFELL HALL. 


125 


if he had some one to advise him and remind him of what is 
right — ’’ 

“ He would soon learn, you think — and you yourself would 
willingly undertake to be his teacher 'I But, my dear, he is, I 
believe, full ten years older than you — how is it that you are 
so before-hand in moral acquirements 

“ Thanks to you, aunt, I have been well brought up, and had 
good examples always before me, which he, most likely, has 
not; and besides, he is of a sangume temperament, and a gay, 
thoughtless temper, and I am naturally inclined to reflection.” 

“ Well, now you have made him out to be deficient in both 
sense and principle, by your own confession — ” 

“ Then, my sense and principle are at his service !’’ 

“ That sounds presumptuous, Helen ! Do you think you 
have enough for both ; and do you imagine your merry, thought- 
less profligate would allow himself to be guided by a young girl 
like you V 

“ No ; I should not wish to guide him; but I think I might 
have influence sufficient to save him from some errors, and I 
should think my life well spent in the effort to preserve so noble 
a nature from destruction. He always listens attentively now, 
when I speak seriously to him (and 1 venture often to reprove 
his random way of talking), and sometimes he says that if he 
had me always by his side he should never do or say a wicked 
thing, and that a little daily talk with me would make him quite 
a saint. It may be partly jest and partly flattery, but still — ” 

“ But still you think it may be truth V’ 

“ If I do think there is any mixture of truth in it, it is not 
from confidence in my own powers, but in /ds natural good- 
ness. And you have no right to call him a profligate, aunt; 
he is nothing of the kind.” 

“Who told you so, my dear? What was that story about 
his intrigue with a married lady — Lady who was it? Miss 
Wilmot herself was telling you the other day.” 

“ It was false — false !” I cried. “ I don’t believe a word of it.” 

“ You think, then, that he is a virtuous, well-conducted young 
man ?” 

“ I know nothing positive respecting his character. I only 
know that I have heard nothing definitive against it — nothing 
that could be proved, at least ; and till people can prove their 
slanderous accusations, I will not believe them. And I know 
this, that if he has committed errors, they are only such as are 


126 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


common to youth, and such as nobody thinks any thing about ; 
for I see that every body likes him, and all the mammas smile 
upon him, and their daughters — and Miss Wilmot herself — are 
only too glad to attract his attention.” 

“ Helen, the world may look upon such offenses as venial ; a 
few unprincipled mothers may be. anxious to catch a young man 
of fortune, without reference to his character ; and thoughtless 
girls may be glad to wdn the smiles of so handsome a gentle- 
man, without seeking to penetrate beyond the surface; but 
you, I trusted, v/ere better informed than to see with their 
eyes, and judge with their perverted judgment. I did not 
think you would call these venial errors !” 

“Nor do I, aunt; but if I hate the sins I love the sinner, 
and would do much for his salvation, even supposing your sus- 
picions to be mainly true — which I do not and will not believe.” 

“ Well, my dear, ask your uncle what sort of company he 
keeps, and if he is not banded with a set of loose, profligate 
young men, whom he calls his friends — his jolly companions, 
and whose chief delight is to wallow in vice, and vie with each 
other who can run fastest aijd farthest down the headlong 
road, to the place prepared for the devil and his angels.” 

“ Then, I will save him from them.” 

“ Oh, Helen, Helen ! you little know the misery of uniting 
your fortunes to such a man!” 

“ I have such confidence in him, aunt, notwithstanding all 
you say, that I would willingly risk my happiness for the 
chance of securing his. I will leave better men to those who 
only consider their own advantage. If he has done amiss, I 
shall consider my life well spent in saving him from the conse- 
quences of his early errors, and striving to recall him to the 
path of virtue. God grant me success 1” 

Here the conversation ended, for at this juncture, my uncle’s 
voice was heard, from his chamber, loudly calling upon my 
aunt to come to bed. He was in a bad humor that night; for 
his gout was worse. It had been gradually increasing upon 
him ever since we came to town; and my aunt took advantf^r'" 
of the circumstance, next morning, to persuade him to 
to the country immediately, without waiting for the 
the season. His physician supported and enforced he* argu- 
ments; and, contrary to her usual habits, she so burned the 
preparations for removal (as much for my sake as my uncle’s, I 
think) that in a very few days we departed; and I saw no 


THK TENANT OF VVILDFELL HALL. 


127 


more of Mr. Huntingdon. My aunt flatters herself I shall soon 
forget him— perhaps she thinks I have forgotten him already, 
for I never mention his name ; and she may continue to think 
so, till we meet again — if ever that should be. I wonder if it 
will? 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE MINIATURE. 

August 25th. — I am now quite settled down to my usual 
routine of steady occupations and quiet amusements — tolerably 
contented and cheerful, but still looking forward to spring with 
the hope of returning to town, not for its gayeties and dissi- 
pations, but for the chance of meeting Mr. Huntingdon once 
again ; for still he is always in my thoughts and in my dreams. 
In all my employments, whatever I do, or see, or hear, has an 
ultimate reference to him ; whatever skill or knowledge I ac- 
quire is some day to be turned to his advantage or amusement ; 
whatever new beauties in nature or art I discover, are to be 
depicted to meet his eye, or stored in my memory to be told 
him at some future period. This, at least, is the hope that 
I cherish, the fancy that lights me on my lonely way. It may 
be only an ignis fatuus, after all, but it can do no harm to follow 
it with my eyes and rejoice in its luster, as long as it does not 
lure me from the path I ought to keep ; and I think it will not, 
for I have thought deeply on my aunt’s advice, and I see 
clearly now the folly of throwing myself away on one that is 
unworthy of all the love I have to give, and incapable of re- 
sponding to the deepest and best feelings of my inmost heart — 
so clearly that even if I should see him again, and if he should 
remember me and love me still (which, alas ! is too little proba- 
ble, considering how he is situated, and by whom surrounded), 
and if he should ask me to maiTy him, I am determined not to 
consent until I know for certain whether my aunt’s opinion of 
him or mine is nearest the truth; for if mine is altogether 
wrong, it is not he that I love; it is a creature of my own 
imagination. But I think it is not wrong — no, no — there is a 
secret something, an inward instinct, that assures me I am right. 
There is essential goodness in him ; and what delight to unfold 
it ! If he has wandered, what bliss to recall him ! If he is 


128 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


now exposed to the baneful influence of corrupting and wicked 
companions, what glory to deliver him from them ! Oh ! if I 
could but believe that Heaven has designed me for this ! 

To-day is the first of September ; but my uncle has ordered 
the gamekeeper to spare the partridges till the gentlemen come. 
“ What gentlemen V’ I asked when I heard it. A small party 
he had invited to shoot. His friend Mr. Wilmot was one, and 
my aunt’s friend Mr. Boarham another. This struck me as 
tenable news, at the moment, but all regret and apprehension 
vanished like a dream when I heard that Mr. Huntingdon was 
actually to be a third ! My aunt is greatly against his coming, 
of course; she earnestly endeavored to dissuade my uncle from 
asking him ; but he, laughing at her objections, told her it was 
no use talking, for the mischief was already done : he had in- 
vited Huntingdon and his friend Lord Lowborough before we 
left London, and nothing now remained but to fix the day for 
their coming. So he is safe, and I am sure of seeing him. 1 
can not express my joy ; I find it very difficult to conceal it 
from my aunt ; but I don’t wish to trouble her with my feelings 
till I know whether I ought to indulge them or not. If I find 
it my absolute duty to suppress them, they shall trouble no one 
but myself; and if I can really feel myself justified in indulging 
this attachment, I can dare any thing, even the anger and giief 
of my best friend, for its object. Surely, I shall soon know. 
But they are not coming till about the middle of the month. 

We are to have two lady visitors also : Mr. Wilmot is to 
bring his niece and her cousin Milicent. I suppose, my aunt 
thinks the latter will benefit me by her society and the salutary 
example of her gentle deportment, and lowly and tractable 
spirit ; and the former, 1 suspect she intends as a species of 
counter-attraction to win Mr. Huntingdon’s attention from me. 
I don’t thank her for this ; but I shall be glad of Milicent’s 
company : she is a sweet, good girl, and I wish I were like 
her — more like her, at least, than I am. 

19th. — They are come. They came the day before yester- 
day. The gentlemen are all gone out to shoot, and the ladies 
are with my aunt, at work, in the drawing-room. I have retired 
to the library, for I am very unhappy, and I want to be alone. 
Books can not divert me ; so having opened my desk, I will try 
what may be done by detailing the cause of my uneasiness. 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


129 


This paper will serve instead of a confidential friend into whose 
ear I might pour forth the overflowings of my heart. It will 
not sympathize with my distresses, but then, it will not laugh 
at them ; and, if I keep it close, it can not tell again ; so it is 
perhaps, the best friend I could have for the purpose. 

First, let me speak of his arrival — how I sat at my win(^ow 
and watched for nearly two hours, before his carriage entered 
the park gates — for they all came before him — and how deeply 
I was disappointed at every arrival, because it was not his. 
First came Mr. Wilmot and the ladies. When Milicent had 
got into her room, I quitted my post a few minutes, to look in 
upon her and have a little private conversation, for she was 
now my intimate friend, several long epistles having passed 
between us since our parting. On returning to my window, I 
beheld another carriage at the door. Was it his] No ; it was 
Mr. Boarham’s plain, dark chariot ; and there stood he upon 
the steps, carefully superintending the dislodging of his various 
boxes and packages. What a collection ! one would have 
thought he projected a visit of six months at least. A consid- 
erable time after, came Lord Lowborough in his barouche. Is 
he one of the profligate friends, I wonder] I should think not; 
for no one could call him a jolly companion, I’m sure — and 
besides, he appears too sober and gentlemanly in his demeanor, 
to merit such suspicions. He is a tall, thin, gloomy looking 
man, apparently between thirty and forty, and of a somewhat 
sickly, careworn aspect. 

At last, Mr. Huntingdon’s light phaeton came bowling mer- 
rily up the lawn. I had but a transient glimpse of him, for the 
moment it stopped, he sprang out over the side on to the portico 
steps, and disappeared into the house. 

I now submitted to be dressed for dinner — a duty which 
Rachel had been urging upon me for the last twenty minutes ; 
and when that important business was completed, I repaired 
to the drawing-room where I found Mr. and Miss Wilmot, and 
Milicent Hargi’ave already assembled. Shortly after. Lord 
Lowborough entered, and then Mr. Boarham, who seemed 
quite willing to forget and forgive my former conduct, and to 
hope that a little conciliation and steady perseverance on his 
part might yet succeed in bringing me to reason. While I 
stood at the window, conversing with Milicent, he came up to 
me, and was beginning to talk in nearly his usual strain, when 
Mr. Huntingdon entered the room. 

P# 


130 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“How will he greet me I wonder said my bounding heart; 
and instead of advancing to meet him, I turned to the window 
to hide or subdue my emotion. But having saluted his host 
and hostess, and the rest of the company, he came to me, 
ardently squeezed my hand, and murmured he was glad to see 
me once again. At that moment dinner was announced, my 
aunt desired him to take Miss Hargrave into the dining-room, 
and odious Mr. Wilmot, with unspeakable grimaces, offered 
his arm to me; and I was condemned to sit between himself 
and Mr. Boarham. But afterward, when we were all again 
assembled in the drawing-room, I was indemnified for so much 
suffering by a few delightful minutes of conversation with Mr. 
Huntingdon. 

In the course of the evening, Miss Wilmot was called upon 
to sing and play for the amusement of the company, and I to 
exhibit my drawings, and, though he likes music, and she is an 
accomplished musician, I think I am right in affirming that he 
paid more attention to my drawings than to her music. 

So far, so good ; but, hearing him pronounce, sotto voce, 
but with peculiar emphasis concerning one of the pieces, “ This 
is better than all!” — I looked up, curious to see which it was, 
and, to my horror, beheld him complacently gazing at the hach 
•of the picture — it was his own face that I had sketched there 
and forgotten to rub it out I To make matters worse, in the 
agony of the moment, I attempted to snatch it from his hand ; 
but he prevented me, and exclaiming, “ No — by George, I’ll 
keep it!” placed it against his waistcoat, and buttoned his coat 
upon it with a delighted chuckle. 

Then, drawing a candle close to his elbow, he gathered all 
the drawings to himself, as well what he had seen as the others, 
and muttering, “ I must look at hoth sides now,” he eagerly 
commenced an examination which I watched, at first, with tol- 
erable composure, in the confidence that his vanity would not be 
gratified by any further discoveries ; for, though I must plead 
guilty to having disfigured the backs of several with abortive at- 
tempts to delineate that too fascinating physiognomy, I was 
sure that, with that one unfortunate exception, I had carefully 
obliterated all such witnesses of my infatuation. But the pen- 
cil frequently leaves an impression upon card-board that no 
amount of rubbing can efface. Such, it seems, was the case with 
most of these ; and I confess I trembled when I saw him hold- 
ing them so close to the candle, and poring so intently over the 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


131 


seeming blanks ; but still, I trusted he would not be able to 
make out these dim traces to his own satisfaction. I was mis- 
taken, however — having ended his scrutiny, he quietly re- 
marked — 

“ I perceive, the backs of young ladies’ drawings, like the 
postscripts of their letters, are the most important and interest 
ing part of the concern.” 

Then, leaning back in his chair, he reflected a few minutes in 
silence, complacently smiling to himself, and, while I was con- 
cocting some cutting speech wherewith to check his gratifica- 
tion, he rose, and passing over to where Annabella Wilmot sat 
vehemently coquetting with Lord Lowborough, seated himself 
on the sofa beside her, and attached himself to her for the rest 
of the evening. 

“ So then !” thought I — “ he despises me, because he knows 
I love him.” 

And the reflection made me so miserable I knew not what to 
do. Milicent came and began to admire my drawings and make 
remarks upon them ; but I could not talk to her — I could talk 
to no one ; and upon the introduction of tea, I took advantage 
of the open door and the slight diversion caused by its entrance, 
to slip out — for I was sure I could not take any — and take re- 
fuge in the library. My aunt sent Thomas in quest of me, 
to ask if I were not coming to tea ; but I bade him say J 
should not take any to-night ; and happily she was too much 
occupied with her guests to make any further inquiries at the 
time. 

As most of the company had traveled far that day, they retired 
early to rest ; and having heard them all, as I thought, go up- 
stairs, I ventured out, to get my candlestick from the drawing- 
room side-board. But Mr. Huntingdon had lingered behind 
the rest : he was just at the foot of the stairs when I opened 
the door ; and hearing my step in the hall ; though I could hard- 
ly hear it myself — he instantly turned back. 

“ Helen is that you T’ said he, “ why did you run away from 

US'?” 

“ Good night, Mr. Huntingdon,” said I, coldly, not choosing 
to answer the question. And I turned away to enter the draw- 
ing-room. 

“But you’ll shake hands, wont you '?” said he, placing him- 
self in the door- way before me. And he seized my hand, and 
held it, much against my will. 


132 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ Let me go, Mr. Huntingdon !” said I — “ I want to get a 
candle.” 

“ The candle will keep,” returned he. 

I made a desperate effort to free my hand from his grasp. 

“ Why are you in such a hurry to leave me, Helen I” he said, 
with a smile of the most provoking self-sufficiency — “ you don’t 
hate me, you knowj^ 

“ Yes, I do — at this moment.” 

“ Not you ! It is Annabella Wilmot you hate, not me.” 

“ I have nothing to do with Annabella Wilmot,” said I, burn- 
ing with indignation. 

“ But I have, you know,” returaed he, with peculiar em- 
phasis. 

“ That is nothing to me, sir !” I retorted. 

“ Is it nothing to you, Helen ] Will you swear it 1 Will 
you 1” 

“ No, I won’t, Mr. Huntingdon ! and I will go !” cried I, not 
knowing whether to laugh or to cry, or to break out into a tem- 
pest of fury. 

“ Go then, you vixen !” he said ; but the instant he released 
my hand, he had the audacity to put his arm around my neck 
and kiss me. 

Trembling with anger and agitation — and I don’t know what 
besides, I broke away, and got my candle and rushed up- stairs 
to my room. He would not have done so but for that hateful 
picture. And there he had it still in his possession, an eternal 
monument to his pride and my humiliation. 

It was but little sleep I got that night ; and in the morning I 
rose perplexed and troubled with the thoughts of meeting him 
at breakfast. I knew not how it was to be done ; an assump- 
tion of dignified, cold indifference would hardly do after what he 
knew of my devotion — to his face, at least. Yet something 
must be done to check his presumption. I would not submit 
to be tyrannized over by those bright, laughing eyes. And ac- 
cordingly, I received his cheeifful morning salutation as calmly 
and coldly as my aunt could have wished, and defeated with 
brief answers his one or two attempts to draw me into conver- 
sation ; while I comported myself with unusual cheerfulness 
and complaisance toward every other member of the party, es- 
pecially Annabella Wilmot ; and even her uncle and Mr. Boar- 
ham were treated with an extra amount of civility on the occa- 
sion ; not from any motives of coquetry, but just to show him 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


133 


that my particulai’ coolness and reserve arose from no general 
ill humor or depression of spirits. 

He was not, however, to be repelled by such acting as this. 
He did not talk much to me, but when he did speak, it was 
with a degree of freedom and openness — and kindliness, top — 
that plainly seemed to intimate he knew his words were music 
to my ears ; and when his looks met mine, it was with a smile 
— presumptuous it might be — but oh, so sweet, so bright, so 
genial, that I could not possibly retain my anger ; every vestige 
of displeasure soon melted away beneath it, like morning clouds 
before the summer sun. 

Soon after breakfast, all the gentlemen save one, with boy- 
ish eagerness, set out on their expedition against the hapless 
partridges ; my uncle and Mr. Wilmot on their shooting ponies, 
Mr. Huntingdon and Lord Lowborough on their legs ; the one 
exception being Mr. Boarham, who, in consideration of the rain 
that had fallen during the night, thought it prudent to remain 
behind a little, and join them in a while, when the sun had dried 
the grass. And he favored us all with a long and minute dis- 
quisition upon the evils and dangers attendant upon damp feet, 
delivered with the most imperturbable gravity, amid the jeers 
and laughter of Mr. Huntingdon and my uncle, who, leaving the 
prudent sportsman to entertain the ladies with his medical dis- 
cussions, sallied fortk with their guns, bending their steps to the 
stables first, to have a look at the horses, and let out the dogs. 

Not desirous of sharing Mr. Boarham’s company for the whole 
of the morning, I betook myself to the library, and there brought 
forth my easel, and began to paint. The easel and the painting 
apparatus would serve as an excuse for abandoning the drawing- 
room, if my aunt should come to complain of the desertion; and, 
besides, I wanted to finish the picture. It was one I had taken 
great pains with, and I intended it to be my master-piece, 
though it was somewhat presumptuous in the design. By the 
bright azure of the sky, and by the warm and brilliant lights, and 
deep, long shadows, I had endeavored to convey the idea of a 
sunny morning. I had ventured to give more of the bright ver- 
dure of spring or early summer to the grass and foliage, than is 
commonly attempted in painting. The scene represented was 
an open glade in a wood. A group of dark Scotch firs was in- 
troduced in the middle distance to relieve the prevailing fresh- 
ness of the rest ; but in the foreground, were part of the gnarled 
trunk and of the spreading boughs of a large forest tree, whose 


134 ' 


THE TENANT OF VVILUFELL HALL. 


foliage was of a brilliant golden green — not golden from autum- 
nal mellowness, but from the sunshine, and the very immaturity 
of the scarce expanded leaves. Upon this bough, that stood 
out in bold relief against the somber firs, were seated an amor- 
ous pair of turtle doves, whose soft, sad-colored plumage afforded 
a contrast of another nature ; and beneath it, a young girl was 
kneeling on the daisy-spangled turf, with head thrown back, and 
masses of fair hair falling on her shoulders, her hands clasped, 
lips parted, and eyes intently gazing upward in pleased, yet 
earnest contemplation of those feathered lovers — too deeply ab- 
sorbed in each other to notice her. 

I had scarcely settled to my work — which, however, wanted 
but a few touches to the finishing — when the sportsmen passed 
the window on their return from the stables. It was partly 
open, and Mr. Huntingdon must have seen me as he went by, 
for in half a minute he came back, and, setting his gun against 
the wall, threw up the sash, and sprang in, and set himself be- 
fore my picture. 

“ Very pretty, i’faith !” said he, after attentively regarding it 
for a few seconds — “ and a very fitting study for a young lady. 
Spring just opening into summer- — morning just approaching 
noon — girlhood just ripening into womanhood — and hope just 
verging on fruition. She’s a sweet creature ! but why didn’t 
you make her hair black I” 

“ I thought light hair would suit her better. You see I have 
made her blue-eyed, and plump, and fair, and rosy.” 

“ Upon my word, a very Hebe ! 1 should fall in love with 

her, if I hadn’t the artist before me. Sweet innocent ! she’s 
thinking there will come a time when she will be wooed and 
won like that pretty hen-dove, by as fond and fei'vent a lover ; 
and she’s thinking how pleasant it will be, and how tender and 
faithful he will find her.” 

“ And perhaps,” suggested I, “ how tender and faithful she 
shall find him.” 

“ Perhaps — for there is no limit to the wild extravagance of 
hope’s imaginings, at such an age.” 

“ Do you calUA«^, then, one of her wild , extravagant delusions'?” 

“ No ; my heart tells me it is not. I might have thought so 
once, but now, I say, give me the' girl I love, and I will swear 
eternal constancy to her, and her alone, through summer and 
winter, through youth and age, and life and death ! if age and 
death must come.” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


135 


He spoke tins in such serious earnest, that my heart bounded 
with delight ; but the minute after, he changed his tone, and 
asked, with a significant smile, if I had “ any more portraits.” 

“ No,” replied I, reddening with confusion and wrath. But 
my portfolio was on the table ; he took it up, and coolly sat 
down to examine its contents. 

“ Mr. Huntingdon, those are my unfinished sketches,” cried I, 
“ and I never let any one see them.” 

And I placed my hand on the portfolio to wrest it from him ; 
but he maintained his hold, assuring me that he “ liked unfinished 
sketches of all things.” 

“ But I hate them to be seen,” returned 1. “ I can’t let you 

have it, indeed !” 

“ Let me have its bowels, then,” said he ; and just as I 
wrenched the portfolio from his hand, he deftly abstracted the 
greater part of its contents, and, after turning them over a mo- 
ment, he cried out — 

“ Bless my stars, here’s another !” and slipped a small oval 
of ivory paper into his waistcoat pocket — a complete miniature 
portrait, that I had sketched with such tolerable success as to 
be induced to color it with great pains and care. But I was 
determined he should not keep it. 

“ Mr. Huntingdon,” ciied I, “ I insist upon having that back ! 
It is mine, and you have no right to take it. Give it me di- 
rectly — I’ll never forgive you if you don’t!” 

But the more vehemently I insisted, the more he aggravatea 
my distress by his insulting gleeful laugh. At length, however, 
he restored it to me, saying — 

“ Well, well, since you value it so much, I’ll not deprive you 
of it.” 

To show him how I valued it, I tore it in two and threw 
it into the fire. He was not prepared for this. His merri- 
ment suddenly ceasing, he stared in mute amazement at the 
consuming treasure ; and then, with a careless “ Humph 1 I’ll 
go and shoot now,” he turned on his heel, and vacated the 
apartment by the window, as he came, and setting on his hat 
with an air, took up his gun and walked away, whistling as he 
went, and leaving me not too much agitated to finish my pic- 
ture — for I was glad, at the moment, that I had vexed him. 

When I returned to the drawing-room, I found Mr. Boarham 
had ventured to follow his comrades to the field ; and shortly 
after lunch, to which they did not think of returning, I volun- 


36 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


leered to accompany the ladies in a walk, and show Annabella 
and Milicent the beauties of the country. We took a long 
ramble and re-entered the park just as the sportsmen were re- 
turning from their expedition. .Toil-spent and travel-stained, 
the main body of them crossed over the grass to avoid us ; but 
Mr. Huntingdon, all spattered and splashed as he was, and 
stained with the blood of his prey — to the no small offense of 
my aunt’s strict sense of propriety — came out of his way to 
meet us, with cheerful smiles and words for all but me, and 
placing himself between Annabella Wilmot and myself, walked 
up the road, and began to relate the various exploits and dis- 
asters of the day, in a manner that would have convulsed me 
with laughter, if I had been on good terms with him ; but he 
addressed himself entirely to Annabella, and I, of course, left 
all the laughter and all the badinage to her, and affecting the 
utmost indifference to whatever passed between them, walked 
along a few paces apart, and looking every way but theirs ; 
while my aunt and Milicent went before, linked arm in arm, 
and gravely discoursing together. At length, Mr. Huntingdon 
turned to me, and addressing me in a confidential whisper, 
said — 

“ Helen, why did you bum my picture I” 

“ Because I wished to destroy it,” I answered, with an as- 
perity it is useless now to lament. 

“ Oh, very good !” was the reply, “ if you don’t value me, I 
must turn to somebody that will.” 

I thought it was partly in jest — a half playful mixture of 
mock resignation and pretended indifference ; but immediately 
he resumed his place beside Miss Wilniot, and from that hour 
to this — during all that evening, and all the next day, and the 
next, and the next, and all this morning (the 22d), he has never 
given me one kind word or one pleasant look — never spoken to 
me, but from pure necessity — never glanced toward me, but 
with a cold, unfriendly look I thought him quite incapable of 
assuming. 

My aunt observes the change, and though she has not in- 
quired the cause or made any remark to me on the subject, I 
see it gives her pleasure. Miss Wilmot observes it too, and 
triumphantly ascribes it to her own superior charms and bland- 
ishments. But I am truly miserable — more so than I like 
to acknowledge to myself. Pride refuses to aid me. It has 
brought me into the scrape, and will not help me out of it. 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


137 


He meant no harm — it was only his joyous, playful spirit; 
and I, by my acrimonious resentment — so serious, so dispro- 
portioned to the offense — have so wounded his feelings, so 
deeply offended him, that I fear he will never forgive me — and 
all for a mere jest ! He thinks I dislike him — and he must 
continue to think so. I must lose him forever; and Annabella 
may win him, and triumph as she will. 

But it is not my loss nor her triumph that I deplore, so 
greatly as the wreck of my fond hopes for his advantage, and 
her unworthiness of his affection, and the injury he will do him- 
self by trusting his happiness to her. She does not love him : 
she thinks only of herself. She can not appreciate the good 
that is in him ; she will neither see it, nor value it, nor cheiish 
it. She will neither deplore his faufts nor attempt their amend- 
ment, but rather aggravate them by her own. And I doubt 
whether she will not deceive him after all : I see she is playing 
double between him and Lord Lowborough, and while she 
amuses herself with the lively Huntingdon, she tries her utmost 
to enslave his moody friend ; and should she succeed in bring- 
ing both to her feet, the fascinating commoner will have but 
little chance against the lordly peer. If he observes her art- 
ful by-play, it gives him no uneasiness, but rather adds new 
zest to his diversion, by opposing a stimulating check to his 
otherwise too easy conquest. 

Messrs. Wilmot and Boarham have severally taken occasion 
by his neglect of me to renew their advances ; and if I were 
like Annabella and some others, I should take advantage of 
their perseverance to endeavor to pique him into a revival of 
affection ; but, justice and honesty apart, I could not hear to 
do it ; I am annoyed enough by their present persecutions with- 
out encouraging them farther; and even if I did, it would have 
precious little effect upon him. He sees me suffering under 
the condescending attentions and prosaic discourses of the one, 
and the repulsive obtrusions of the other, without so much as a 
shadow of commiseration for me, or resentment against my 
tormentors. He never could have loved me, or he would not 
have resigned me so willingly, and he would not go on talking 
to every body else so cheerfully as he does — laughing and jest- 
ing with Lord Lowborough and my uncle, teasing Milicent 
Hargrave, and flirting with Annabella Wilmot, as if nothing 
were on his mind. Oh, why can’t I hate him '? I must be in- 
fatuated, or I should scorn to regret him as I do ! But I must 


138 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


rally all the powers I have remaining, and try to tear him from 
my heart. There goes the dinner bell, and here comes my 
aunt, to scold me for sitting here at my desk all day, instead of 
staying with the company. I wish the company were — gone. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

AN INCIDENT. 

Twenty-second. Night. — What have I done 1 and what 
will be the end of it ] I can not calmly reflect upon it ; I can 
not sleep. I must have recourse to my diary again ; I will 
commit it to paper to-night, and see what I shall think of it to- 
morrow. 

I went down to dinner, resolving to be cheerful and well- 
conducted, and kept my resolution very creditably, considering 
how my head ached, and how internally wretched I felt. — 
don’t know what is come over me of late; my very energies, 
both mental and physical, must be strangely impaired, or I 
should not have acted so weakly, in many respects, as I have % 
done; but I have not been well this last day or two: I suppose 
it is with sleeping and eating so little, and thinking so much, 
and being so continually out of humor. But to return : I was 
exerting myself to sing and play for the amusement, and at the 
request of my aunt and Milicent, before the gentlemen came into 
the drawing-room (Miss Wilmot never likes to w^aste her musi- 
cal eflbrts on ladies’ ears alone) : Milicent had asked for a little 
Scotch song, and I was just in the middle of it when they en- 
tered. The first thing Mr. Huntingdon did, was to walk up to 
Annabella : — 

“Now, Miss Wilmot, won’t you give us some music to-night'?” 
said he. “ Do now ! I know you will, when I tell you that I 
have been hungering and thirsting all day for the sound of your 
voice. Come ! the piano’s vacant.” 

It was ; for I had quitted it immediately upon hearing his 
petition. Had I been endowed with a proper degi'ee of self- 
possession,! should have turned to the lady myself, and cheerfully 
joined my entreaties to his; whereby I should have disappointed 
ins expectations, if the affront had been purposely given, or mado 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


139 


him sensible of the wrong, if it had only arisen from thought- 
lessness ; but I felt it too deeply to do any thing but rise from 
the music-stool, and throw myself back on the sofa, suppressing, 
with difficulty, the audible expression of the bitterness I felt 
within. I knew Annabella’s musical talents were superior to 
mine, but that was no reason why I should be treated as a per- 
fect nonentity. The time and the manner of his asking her ap- 
peared like a gratuitous insult to me; and I could have wept 
with pure vexation. 

Meantime, she exultingly seated herself at the piano, and 
favored him with two of his favorite songs, in such superior style 
that even I soon lost my anger in admiration, and listened with a 
sort of gloomy pleasure to the skillful modulations of her full-toned 
and powerful voice, so judiciously aided by her rounded and 
spirited touch ; and while my ears drank in the sound, my eyes 
rested on the face of her principal auditor, and derived an equal 
or superior delight from the contemplation of his speaking coun- 
tenance, as he stood beside her — that eye and brow lighted up 
with keen enthusiasm, and that sweet smile passing and appear- 
ing like gleams of sunshine on an April day. No wonder he 
should hunger and thirst to hear her sing. 1 now forgave him, 
from my heart, his reckless slight of me, and I felt ashamed at 
my pettish resentment of such a trifle — ashamed too of those 
bitter envious pangs that gnawed ray inmost heart, in spite of all 
this admiration and delight. 

“ There now !” said she, playfully running her fingers over 
the keys when she had concluded the second song. “ What 
shall I give you next V’ 

But in saying this, she looked back at Lord Lowborough, 
who was standing a little behind, leaning against the back of a 
chair — an attentive listener, too, experiencing, to judge by his 
countenance, much the same feelings of mingled pleasure and 
sadness as I did. But the look she gave him plainly said, “ Do 
you choose fori me now : I have done enough for him, and will 
gladly exert myself to gratify you and thus encouraged, his 
lordship came forward, and turning over the music, presently 
set before her a little song that I had noticed before, and read 
more than once, with an interest arising from the circumstance 
of my connecting it in my mind with the reigning tyrant of my 
thoughts. And now, with my nerves already excited and half 
unstrung, I could not hear those words so sweetly warbled forth, 
without some symptoms of emotion I was not able to suppress. 


140 


TriE TENANT OF WILDPELL HALL.' 


Tears rose unbidden to my eyes, and I buried my face in the 
sofa-pillow, that they might flow unseen while I listened. The 
air was simple, sweet, and sad ; it is still running in my head — 
and so are the words : — 

“ Farewell to thee ! but not farewell 
To all my fondest thoughts of thee : 

Within my heart they still shall dwell ; 

And they shall cheer and comfort me. 

“ O, beautiful, and full of grace ! 

If thou hadst never met mine eye, 

, I had not dreamed a living face 

Could fancied charms so far outvie. 

‘ If I may ne’er behold again 

That form and face, so dear to me. 

Nor hear thy voice, still would I fain 

. Preserve, for aye, their memory. 

r- : “ That voice, the magic of whose tone 

Can wake an echo in my breast, , 

Creating feelings that, alone. 

Can make my tranced spirit blest. 

That laughing eye, whose sunny beam 
My memory would not cherish less ; — 

. . And oh, that smile! whose joyous gleam 

No mortal language can express. 

“ Adieu ! but let me cherish, still, 

’ The hope with which I can not part. 

' Contempt may wound and coldness chill. 

But still it lingers in my heart. 

“ And who can tell but Heaven, at last. 

May answer all my thousand prayers. 

And bid the future pay the past 

With joy for anguish, smiles for tears ?” 

When it ceased, I longed fbr nothing so much as to be out of 
the room. The sofa was not far from the door, but I did not 
dare to raise my head, for I knew Mr. Huntingdon was standing 
near me, and I knew by the sound of his voice, as he spoke in 
answer to some remark of Lord Lowborough’s that his face was 
turned toward me. Perhaps, a half suppressed sob had caught 
his ear, and caused him to look round — Heaven forbid ! But, "with 
a violent effort, I checked all further signs of weakness, dried my 
tears, and, when I thought he.had turned away again, rose, and 
left the apartment, taking refuge in my favorite resort, tlie library. 

There was no light there but the faint red glow of the 
neglected fire ; but I did not want a light ; I only wanted to 
indulge my thoughts, unnoticed and undisturbed ; and sitting 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


141 


down on a low stool before the easy chair, I sunk my head 
upon its cushioned seat, and thought, and thought, until the 
tears gushed out again, and I wept like any child. Presently, 
however, the door was gently opened and some one entered the 
room. I trusted it was only a servant, and did not stir. The 
door was closed again ; but I was not alone : a hand gently 
touched my shoulder, and a voice said, softly — 

“ Helen, what is the matter 

I could not answer at the moment. 

“ You must and shall tell me,” was added more vehemently 
and the speaker threw himself on his knees, beside me on the 
rug, and forcibly possessed himself of my hand ; but I hastily 
caught it away, and replied — 

“ It is nothing to you, Mr. Huntingdon.” 

“ Are you sure it is nothing to me 1” he retunied, “ can you 
swear that you were not thinking of me while you wept ?” 

This was unendurable. I made an effort to rise, but he was 
kneeling on my dress. 

“ Tell me,” continued he — “ I want to know, because, if you 
were, I have something to say to you, and if not, I’ll go.” 

“ Go then !” I cried ; but, fearing he would obey too well, 
and never come again, I hastily added — “ Or say what you have 
to say, and have done with it !” 

“ But which 1” said he — “ for I shall only say it if you really 
were thinking of me. So tell me, Helen.” 

“ You’re excessively impertinent, Mr. Huntingdon !” 

“Not at all ; too pertinent, you mean — so you won’t tell me ] 
Well, I’ll spare your woman’s pride, and, construing your si- 
lence into ‘ Yes,’ I’ll take it for granted that I was the subject of 
your thoughts, and the cause of your affliction ” 

“ Indeed, sir — ” 

“If you deny it, I won’t tell you my secret,” threatened he; 
and I did not inteiTupt him again, nor even attempt to repulse 
him, tliough he had taken my hand once more, and half em- 
braced me with his other arm. I was scarcely conscious of it, 
at the time. 

“ It is this,” resumed he ; “ that Annabella Wilmot, in com 
parison with you, is like a flaunting peony compared with a 
sweet, wild rosebud gemmed with dew, and I love you to distrac- 
tion ! Now, tell me if that intelligence gives you any pleasure. 
Silence again I That means, Yes. Then let me add, that I can 
not live without you, and if you answer. No, to this last question. 


142 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


you will drive me mad. Will you bestow yourself upon mel 
you will !” he cried, nearly squeezing me to death in his arms. 

“ No, no !” I exclaimed, struggling to free myself from him — 
“ you must ask my uncle and aunt.’’ 

“ They won’t refuse me, if you don’t.” 

“ I’m not so sure of that — my aunt dislikes you.” 

“ But you don’t, Helen — say you love me, and I’ll go.” 

“ I wish you would go !” I replied. 

“ I will, this instant, if you’ll only say you love me.” 

“ You know I do,” I answered. And again he caught me in 
his arms, and smothered me with kisses. 

At that moment, my aunt opened wide the door, and stood 
before us, candle in hand, in shocked and horrified amazement, 
gazing alternately at Mr. Huntingdon and me — for we had both 
started up, and now stood wide enough asunder. But his con- 
fusion was only for a moment. Rallying in an instant, with the 
most enviable assurance, he began — 

“ I beg ten thousand pardons, Mrs. Maxwell ! Don’t be too 
severe upomme. I’ve been asking your sweet niece to take me 
for better, for worse ; and she, like a good girl, informs me she 
can not think of it without her uncle’s and aunt’s consent. So 
let me implore you not to condemn me to eternal wretchedness : 
if you favor my cause, I am safe; for Mr. Maxwell, I am certain, 
can refuse you nothing.” 

“We will talk of this to-moiTOw, sir,” said my aunt, coldly. 
“ It is a subject that demands mature and serious deliberation. 
At present, you had better return to the drawing-room.” 

“ But meantime,” pleaded he, “ let me commend my cause to 
your most indulgent — ” 

“No indulgence for you, Mr. Huntingdon, must come be- 
tween me and the consideration of my niece’s happiness.” 

“ Ah, true ! I know she is an angel, and I am a presumptu- 
ous dog to dream of possessing such a treasure ; but, neverthe- 
less, I would sooner die than relinquish her in favor of the best 
man that ever went to heaven — and, and as for her happiness, I 
would sacrifice my body and soul — ” 

“ Body and soul, Mr. Huntingdon — sacrifice your soul 

“Well, I would lay down life — ” 

“ You will not be required to lay it down.” 

“ I will spend it, then — devote my life — and all its powers to 
the promotion and preservation — ” 

“ At another time, sir, we will talk of this — and I should have 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


143 


felt disposed to judge more favorably of your pretensions, if you 
too had chosen another time and place, and, let me add, another 
manner for your declaration.” 

“ Why, you see, Mrs. Maxwell,” he began — 

“ Pardon me, sir,” said she, with dignity. “ The company 
are inquiring for you in the other room.” And she turned to me. 

“ Then you must plead for me, Helen,” said he, and at length 
withdrew. 

“ You had better retire to your room, Helen,” said my aunt, 
gravely. “ I will discuss this matter with you, too, to-morrow.” 

“ Don’t be angry, aunt,” said I. 

“ My, dear, I am not angry,” she replied : “ I am surprised. 

If it is true that you told him you could not accept his offer 
without our consent — ” 

“ It is true,” interrupted I. 

“ Then how could you permit — ” 

“ I could’nt help it, aunt,” I cried bursting into tears. They 
were not altogether the tears of sorrow, or of fear for her dis- 
pleasure, but rather the outbreak of the general tumultuous 
excitement of my feelings. But my good aunt was touched at " 
my agitation. In a softer tone, she repeated her recommenda- 
tion to retire, and gently kissing my forehead, bade me good- 
night, and put her candle in my hand; and I went; but my 
brain worked so, I could not think of sleeping. I feel calmer 
now, that I have written all this ; and I will go to bed, and try 
to win tired nature’s sweet restorer. 


CHAPTER XX. 

PERSISTENCE. 

September 24th. — In the moniing I rose, light and cheerful — 
nay, intensely happy. The hovering cloud cast over me by my 
aunt’s views, and by the fear of not obtaining her consent, was 
lost in the bright effulgence of my own hopes, and the too de- 
lightful consciousness of requited love. It was a splendid 
morning ; and I went out to enjoy it, in a quiet ramble in com- 
pany with my own blissful thoughts. The dew was on the 
grass, and ten thousand gossamers were waving in the breeze ; 


144 


THE TENANT OP WILDFELL HALL. 


the happy red-breast was pouring out its little soul in song, and 
ray heart overflowed with silent hymns of gratitude and praise 
to Heaven. 

But I had not wandered far before my solitude was interrupted 
by the only person that could have disturbed my musings, at that 
moment, without being looked upon as an unwelcome intruder : 
Mr. Huntingdon came suddenly upon me. So unexpected was 
die apparition, that I might have thought it the creation of an 
over-excited imagination, had the sense of sight alone borne 
witness to his presence ; but immediately I felt his strong arm 
round my waist, and his warm kiss on my cheek, while his 
keen and gleeful salutation, “ My own Helen !” was ringing in 
my ear. 

“ Not yours yet,” said I, hastily swerving aside from this too 
presumptuous greeting ; “ remember my guardians. You will 
not easily attain my aunt’s consent. Don’t you see she is preju- 
diced against you 

“ I do, dearest ; and you must tell me why, that I may best 
know how to combat her objections. I suppose she thinks I am 
a prodigal,” pursued he, observing that I was unwilling to re- 
ply, “ and concludes that I shall have but little worldly goods 
wherewith to endow my better half] If so, you must tell her 
that my property is mostly entailed, and I can not get rid of it. 
There may be a few mortgages on the rest — a few trifling debts 
and encumbrances here and there, but nothing to speak of ; and 
though I acknowledge I am not so rich as I might be — or have 
been — still, I think, we could manage pretty comfortably on 
what’s left. My father, you know, was something of a miser, 
and, in his latter days especially, saw no pleasure in life but to 
amass riches ; and so it is no wonder that his son should make 
it his chief delight to spend them, which was accordingly the 
case, until my acquaintance with you, dear Helen, taught me 
other views and nobler aims. And the very idea of having you 
to care for under my roof, would force me to moderate my ex- 
penses and live like a Christian — not to speak of all the prudence 
and virtue you would instill into my mind by your wise counsels, 
and sweet, attractive goodness.” 

“ But it is not that,” said I ; “ it is not money my aunt thinks 
about. She knows better than to value worldly wealth above 
Its price.” 

“ What is it, then ]” 

“ She wishes me to — to marry none but a really good man.” 


THE TENANT OP WILDFELL* HALL. 


145 


What, a mail of ‘ decided j^iiety V ahem ! Well, come, I’ll 
manage that, too ! It’s Sunday to-day, isn’t it % I’ll go to 
church morning, afternoon, and evening, and comport myself in 
such a godly sort, that she shall regard me with admiration and 
sisterly love, as a brand plucked from the burning. I’ll come 
home sighing like a furnace, and full of the savor and unction of 
lear Mr. Blatant’s discouise — ” 

“ Mr. Leighton,” said I, dryly. 

“ Is Mr. Leighton a ‘ sweet preacher,’ Helen — a ‘ dear, de- 
lightful, heavenly-minded man V ” 

“ He is a good man, Mr. Huntingdon. I wish I could say 
half as much for you.” 

“ Oh, I forgot ; you are a saint, too. I crave your pardon, 
dearest — but don’t call me Mr. Huntingdon, my name is Arthur.” 

“ I’ll call you nothing — for I’ll have nothing at all to do with 
you, if you talk in that way any more. If you really mean to 
deceive my aunt, as you say, you are very wicked ; and if not, 
you are very wrong to jest on such a subject.” 

“ I stand corrected,” said he, concluding his laugh with a sor- 
rowful sigh. “ Now,” resumed he, after a momentary pause, 
“ let us talk about something else. And come nearer to me, 
Helen, and take my arm ; and then I’ll let you alone. I can’t 
be quiet while I see you walking there.” 

I complied, but said we must soon return to the house. 

“No one will be down to breakfast yet, for long enough,” he 
answered. “ You spoke of your guardians just now, Helen, but 
is not your father still living V* 

“ Yes, but I always look upon my uncle and aunt as my 
guardians, for they are so, in deed, though not in name. My 
father has entirely given me up to their care. I have never seen 
him since dear mamma died, when I was a very little girl, and 
my aunt, at her request, offered to take charge of me, and took 
me away to Staningley, where I have remained ever since ; and 
I don’t think he would object to any thing for me, that she thought 
proper to sanction.” 

“ But would he sanction any thing to which she thought prop- 
er to object V* ^ 

“ No, I don’t think he cares enough about me.” 

“ He is very much to blame — but he doesn’t know what an 
angel he has for his daughter — which is all the better for me, 
as, if he did, he would not be willing to part with such a treas- 
ure.” 

a 


146 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ And, Mr. Huntingdon,” said I, “ I suppose you know I am 
not an heiress 

He protested he had never given it a thought, and begged I 
vvould not disturb his present enjoyment by the mention of 
such uninteresting subjects. I was glad of this proof of dis- 
interested affection ; for Annabella Wilmot is the probable 
heiress to all her uncle’s wealth, in addition to her late father’s 
property, which she has already in possession. 

I now insisted upon retracing our steps to the house ; but 
we walked slowly, and went on talking as we proceeded. I 
need not repeat all we said: let me rather refer to what passed 
between my aunt and me, after breakfast, when Mr. Hunting- 
don called my uncle aside, no doubt to make his proposals, and 
she beckoned me into another room, where she once more 
commenced a- solemn remonstrance, which, however, entirely 
failed to convince me that her view of the case was preferable 
to my own. 

“ You judge him uncharitably, aunt, I know,” said I. “ His 
very friends are not half so bad as you represent them. There 
is Walter Hargrave, Milicent’s brother, for one : he is but a 
little lower than the angels, if half she says of him is true. 
She is continually talking to me about him, and lauding his 
many virtues to the skies.” 

“ You will form a very inadequate estimate of a man’s 
character,” replied she, “if you judge by what a fond sister 
says of him. The worst of them generally know how to hide 
their misdeeds from their sister’s eyes, and their mother’s too.” 

“ And there is Lord Lowborough,” continued I, “ quite a 
decent man.” 

“ Who told you sol Lord Lowborough is a desperate man. 
He has dissipated his fortune in gambling and other things, 
and is now seeking an heiress to retiieve it. I told Miss Wil- 
mot so ; but you’re all alike : she haughtily answered she was 
very much obliged to me, but she believed she knew when a 
man was seeking her for her fortune, and when for herself; 
she flattered herself she had had experience enough in those 
matters, to be justified in trusting to her own Judgment — and 
as for his lordship’s lack of fortune, she cared nothing about 
that, as she hoped her own would suffice for both; and as for 
his wildness, she supposed he was no worse than others — be- 
sides, he was reformed now. Yes, they can all play the hypo- 
crite when they want to take in a fond, misguided woman !” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


147 


“ Well, I think he’s about as good as she is,” said I. “ But 
when Mr. Huntingdon is married, he won’t have many oppor- 
tunities of consorting with his bachelor friends — and the wor'Se 
they are, the more J long to deliver him from them.” 

“ To be sure, my dear ; and the worse he is, I suppose, the 
more you long to deliver him from himself.” 

“ Yes, provided he is not incorrigible — that is, the more I 
long to deliver him from his faults — to give him an opportunity 
of shaking off the adventitious evil got from contact with others 
worse than himself, and shining out in the unclouded light of 
his own genuine goodness — to do my utmost to help his better 
self against his worse, and make him what he would have been 
if he had not, from the beginning, had a bad, selfish, miserly 
father, who to gratify his own sordid passions, restricted him in 
the most innocent enjoyments of childhood and youth, and so 
disgusted him with every kind of restraint; and a foolish 
mother, who indulged him to the top of his bent, deceiving her 
husband for him, and doing her utmost to encourage those 
germs of folly and vice it was her duty to suppress. And then, 
such a set of companions as you represent his friends to be — ” 

“ Poor man !” said she, sarcastically, “ his kind have greatly 
wronged him !” 

“ They have !” cried I — “ and they shall wrong him no more 
— his wife shall undo what his mother did !” 

“ Well !” said she, after a short pause. “ I must say, Helen, 
I thought better of your judgment than this — and your taste, 
too. How you can love such a man I can not tell, or what 
pleasure you can find in his company ; for ‘ What fellowship 
hath light with darkness ; or he that believeth with an infidel 1’ ” 

“ He is not an infidel ; and I am not light, and he is not 
darkness, his worst and only vice is thoughtlessness.” 

“ And thoughtlessness,” pursued my aunt, “ may lead to 
every crime, and will but poorly excuse our errors in the sight 
of God. Mr. Huntingdon, I suppose, is not without the com- 
mon faculties of men : he is not so light-headed as to be irre- 
sponsible : his Maker has endowed him with reason and con- 
science as well as the rest of us; the Scriptures are open to 
him as well as to others ; and ‘ If he hear not them, neither 
will he hear though one rose from the dead.’ And remember, 
Helen,” continued she solemnly, “ ‘ The wicked shall be turned 
into hell, and they that God!’ And suppose, even, that 

he should continue to love you, and you him, and that you 


148 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


should pass through life together with tolerable comfort, how 
will it be in the end, when you see yourselves parted forever ; 
you, perhaps, taken into eternal bliss, and he cast into the lake 
that burneth with unquenchable fire — there forever to — ” 

“ Not forever,” I exclaimed, “ only ‘ till he has paid the 
uttermost farthing for ‘ If any man’s work abide not the fire, 
he shall suffer loss, yet himself shall be saved, but so as by fire,’ 
and He that ‘ is able to subdue all things to Himself, will have 
all men to be saved,’ and ‘ will in the fullness of time, gather 
together in one all things in Christ Jesus, who tasted death for 
every man, and in whom God will reconcile all things to Him- 
self, whether they be things in earth or things in heaven.’ ” • 

“Oh, Helen ! where did you learn all this I” 

“ In the Bible, aunt. I have searched it through, and found 
nearly thirty passages, all tending to support the same theory.” 

“And is that the use you make of your Bible*? And did 
you find no passages tending to prove the danger and i>lsity 
of such a belief?” 

“ No : I found, indeed, some passages that taken by themselves, 
might seem to contradict that opinion ; but they will all bear 
a different construction to that which is commonly given, and in 
most the only difficulty is in the word we translate ‘ everlasting,’ 
or ‘ eternal.’ I don’t know the Greek, but I believe it strictly 
means for ages, and might signify either endless, or long-endur- 
ing. And as for the danger of the belief, I would not publish 
it abroad, if I thought any poor wretch would be likely to pre- 
sume upon it to his own destruction, but it is a glorious thought 
to cherish in one’s own heart, and I would not part with it for 
all the world can give !” 

' Here our conference ended, for it was now high time to pre- 
pare for church. Every one attended the morning service, 
except my uncle, who hardly ever goes, and Mr. Wilmot, who 
stayed at home with him to enjoy a quiet game of cribbage. 
In the afternoon Miss Wilmot and Lord Lowborough likewise 
excused themselves from attending ; but Mr. Huntingdon vouch- 
safed to accompany us again. Whether it was to ingratiate 
himself with my aunt, I can not tell, but, if so, he certainly should 
have behaved better. I must confess, I did not like his con- 
duct during service at all. Holding his prayer-book upside 
down, or open at any place but the right, he did nothing but 
stare about him, unless he happened to catch my aunt’s eye 
or mine, and then he w'ould drop his own on his book, with a 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


149 


puritanical air of mock solemnity that would have been lu- 
dicrous, if it had not been too provoking. Once, during the 
sermon, after attentively regarding Mr. Leighton for a few 
minutes, he suddenly produced his gold pencil-case and snatch- 
ed up a Bible. Perceiving that I observed the movement, he 
whispered he was going to make a note of the sermon ; but 
instead of that — as I sat next him I could not help seeing that 
he was making a caiicature of the preacher, giving to the re- 
spectable, pious, elderly gentleman, the air and aspect of a 
most absurd old hypociite. And yet, upon his return, he talked 
to my aunt about the sermon with a degree of modest, serious 
discrimination that tempted me to believe he had really attended 
and profited by the discourse. 

Just before dinner my uncle called me into the library for 
the discussion of a very important matter, which was dismissed 
in few words. 

“Now, Nell,” said he, “this young Huntingdon has been 
asking for you : what must I say about it 'I Your aunt would 
answer ‘ No ’ — but what say you V’ 

“ I say Yes, uncle,” replied I, without a moment’s hesitation ; 
for I had thoroughly made up my mind on the subject. 

“ Very good!” ciied he. “Now that’s a good, honest an- 
swer — wonderful for a girl 1 Well, I’ll write to your father 
to-morrow. He’s sure to give his consent ; so you may look 
on the matter as settled. You’d have done a deal better if you 
had taken Wilmot, I can tell you ; but that you won’t believe. 
At your time of life it’s love that rules the roast : at mine, it’s 
solid, serviceable gold. I suppose now, you’d never dream of 
looking into the state of your husband’s finances, or troubling 
your head about settlements, or any thing of that sort I” 

“ I don’t think I should.” 

“ Well, be thankful, then, that you’ve wiser heads to think for 
you. I haven’t yet had time to examine thoroughly into this young 
rascal’s affairs, but I see that a great part of his father’s fine 
property has been squandered away ; but still I think there’s a 
pretty fair share of it left, and a little careful nursing may make 
a handsome thing of it yet ; and then we must persuade your 
father to give you a decent fortune, as he has only one besides 
yourself to care for ; and, if you behave well, who knows but 
what I may be induced to remember you in my will I” con- 
tinued be, putting his finger to his nose, with a knowing wink. 

“ Thanks, uncle, for that and all your kindness,” replied I. 


150 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“Well, and I questioned this young spark on the matter of 
settlements,” continued he ; “ and he seemed disposed to be 
generous enough on that point — ” 

“ I knew he would !” said I. “ But pray don’t trouble your 
head — or his, or mine about that; for all I have will be his, 
and all he has will be mine ; and what more could either of us 
require V’ And I was about to make my exit, but he called 
me back. 

“Stop, stop!” cried he — “we haven’t mentioned the time 
yet. When must it be^ Your aunt would put it off till the 
Lord knows when, but he is anxious to be bound as soon as 
may be : he won’t hear of waiting beyond next month ; and you, 
I guess, will be of the same mind, so — ” 

“ Not at all, uncle ; on the contrary, I should like to wait till 
after Christmas, at least.” 

“ Oh 1 pooh, pooh ! never tell me that tale — I know better,” 
cried he ; and he persisted in his incredulity. Nevertheless, it 
is quite true. I am in no hurry at all. How can I be, when 
I think of the momentous change that awaits me, and of all 
I have to leave 1 It is htTppiness enough to know that we 
are to be united ; and that he really loves me, and I may 
love him as devotedly, and think of him as often as I please. 
However I insisted upon consulting my aunt about the time of 
the wedding, for I determined her counsels should not be utter- 
ly disregarded ; and no conclusions on that particular are come 
to yet. 


CHAPTER XXL 

OPINIONS. 

October 1st. — All is settled now. My father has given his 
consent, and the time is fixed for Christmas, by a sort of com- 
promise between the respective advocates for hurry and delay. 
Milicent Hargrave is to be one bridesmaid, and Annabella 
Wilmot the other — not that I am particularly fond of the latter, 
but she is an intimate of the family, and I have not another 
friend. 

When I told Milicent of my engagement, she rather pro- 


THE TENANT OP WILDFELL HALL. 


151 


voked me by her manner of taking it. After staring a moment 
in mute surprise, she said — 

“ Well, Helen, I suppose I ought to congi’atulate you — and I 
am glad to see you so happy; but I did not think you would 
take him ; and I can’t help feeling surprised that you should 
like him so much.” 

“ Why so 1” 

“ Because you are so superior to him in eveiy way, and 
there’s something so bold and reckless about him — so, I don’t 
know-how — but I always feel a wish to get out of his way, 
when I see him approach.” 

“ You are timid, Milicent, but that’s no fault of his.” 

“ And then his look,” continued she. “ People say he’s hand- 
some, and of course he is, but I don’t like that kind of beauty ; 
and I wonder that you should.” 

“ Why so, pray V* 

“ Well, you know, I think there’s nothing noble or lofty in 
his appearance.” 

“ In fact, you wonder that I can like any one so unlike the 
stilted heroes of romance I Well! give me my flesh and blood 
lover, and I’ll leave all the Sir Herberts and Valentines to you 
— if you can find them.” 

“ I don’t want them,” said she. “ I’ll be satisfied with flesh 
and blood too— only the spirit must shine through and predom- 
inate. But don’t you think Mr. Huntingdon’s face is too red ]” 

“ No 1” cried I, indignantly. “ It is not red at all. There is 
just a pleasant glow — a healthy freshness in his complexion, the 
warm, pinky tint of the whole harmonizing with the deeper 
color of the cheeks, exactly as it ought to do. I hate a man to 
be red and white, like a painted doll — or all sickly white, or 
smoky black, or cadaverous yellow!” 

“ Well, tastes differ — but I like pale or dark,” replied she. 
“ But, to tell you the truth, Helen, I had been deluding myself 
with the hope that you would one day be my sister. I ex- 
pected Walter would be introduced to you next season ; and I 
thought you would like him, and was certain he would like 
you ; and I flattered myself I should thus have the felicity of 
seeing the two persons I like best in the world — except mamma 
— united in one. He mayn’t be exactly what you would call 
handsome, but he’s far more distinguished-looking, and nicer 
and- better than Mr. Huntingdon ; — and I’m sure you would 
say so, if you knew him.” 


152 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ Impossible, Milicent ! You think so, because you’re his 
sister ; and, on that account, I’ll forgive you ; but nobody else 
should so disparage Arthur Huntingdon to me, vsdth impunity.” 

Miss Wilraot expressed her feelings on the subject, almost 
as openly. 

“ And so, Helen,” said she, coming up to me with a smile of 
no amiable import, “ you are to be Mrs. Huntingdon, I sup- 
pose 1” 

“ Yes,” replied I. “ Don’t you envy me I” 

“ Oh, dear^ no !” she exclaimed. “ I shall probably be Lady 
Lowborough some day, and then you know, dear, I shall be in 
a capacity to inquire, ‘ Don’t you envy me V ” 

“ Henceforth, I shall envy no one,” retunied I. 

“ Indeed ! Are you so happy then 1” said she thoughtfully ; 
and something very like a cloud of disappointment shadowed 
her face. “ And does he love you — I mean, does he idolize you 
as much as you do him I” she added, fixing her eyes upon me 
with ill-disguised anxiety for the reply. 

“ I don’t want to be idolized,” I answered, “ but I am well 
assured that he loves me more than any body else in the world 
— as I do him.” 

“ Exactly,” said she with a nod. “ I wish — ” she paused. 

“ What do you wish 1” asked I, annoyed at the vindictive 
expression of her countenance. 

“ I wish,” returned she, with a short laugh, “ that all the 
attractive points and desirable qualifications of the two gentle- 
men were united in one — that Lord Lowborough had Hun- 
tingdon’s handsome face and good temper, and all his wit, and 
mirth, and charm, or else that Huntingdon had Lowborough’s 
pedigree, and title, and delightful old family seat, and I had 
him ; and you might have the other and welcome.” 

“ Thank you, dear Annabella, I am better satisfied with 
things as they are, for my own part; and for you, I wish you 
were as well content with your intended, as I am with mine,” 
said I ; and it was true enough ; for, though vexed at first at 
her unamiable spirit, her fi'ankness touched me, and the con- 
trast between our situations was such, that I could well afford 
to pity her and wish her well. 

Mr. Huntingdon’s acquaintances appear to he no better 
pleased with our approaching union than mine. This morn- 
ing’s post brought him letters from several of his friends, 
during the perusal of which, at the breakfast-table, he excited 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


153 


the attention of the company, by the singular variety of his 
grimaces. But he crushed them all into his pocket, with a 
private laugh, and said nothing till the meal was concluded. 
Then, while the company were hanging over the fire or loiter- 
ing through the room, previous to settling to their morning’s 
avocations, he came and leaned over the back of my chair, 
with his face in contact with my curls, and commencing with a 
quiet little kiss, poured forth the following complaints into my 
ear — 

“ Helen, you witch, do you know that you’ve entailed upon 
me the curses of all my friends 1 I wrote to them the other 
day, to tell them of my happy prospects, and now, instead of a 
bundle of congratulations, I’ve got a pocket full of bitter execra- 
tions and reproaches. There’s not one kind wish for me, or 
one good word for you among them all. They say there’ll be no 
more fun now, no more merry days and glorious nights — and 
all my fault — I am the first to break up the jovial band, and 
others, in pure despair, will follow my example. I was the very 
life an d^ prop of the community, they do me the honor to say, 
and I have shamefully betrayed my trust — ” 

“You may join them again, if you like,” said I, somewhat 
piqued at the sorrowful tone of his discourse. “ I should be 
sorry to stand between any man, or body of men, and so much 
happiness; and perhaps I can manage to do without you, as 
well as your poor deserted friends.” 

“ Bless you ! no,” murmured he. “It’s ‘All for Love, or, the 
World well lost,’ with me. Let them go — where they belong 
— to speak politely. But if you saw how they abuse me, Helen, 
you would love me all the more, for having ventured so much 
for your sake.” 

He pulled out his crumpled letters. I thought he was going 
to show them to me, and told him I did not wish to see them. 

“ I am not going to show them to you, love,” said he. 
“ They’re hardly fit for a lady’s eyes — the most part of them. 
But look here. This is Grimsby’s scrawl — only three lines, the 
sulky dog! He doesn’t say much, to be sure, but his very 
silence implies more than all the others’ words, and the less he 
says, the more he thinks — G — d — n him 1 I beg your pardon, 
dearest — and this is Hargrave’s missive. He is particularly 
grieved at me, because, forsooth, he had fallen in love with you 
from his sister’s reports, and meant to have raamed you himself, 
as soon as he had sown his wild oats.” 


154 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


I’m vastly obliged to him,” observed I. 

“And so am I,” said he. “And look at this. This is Hat- 
tersley’s — every page stuffed full of railing accusations, bitter 
curses, and lamentable complaints, ending up w^ith swearing 
that he’ll get married himself in revenge ; he’ll throw himself 
away on the first old maid that chooses to set her cap at him — 
as if I cared what he did with himself!” 

. “ Well,” said I, “if you do give up your intimacy with these 
men, I don’t think you will have much cause to regret the loss 
of their society ; for it’s my belief that they never did you much 
good.” 

“ May be not j but we’d a meiTy time of it, too, though 
mingled with sorrow and pain, as Lowborough knows to his 
cost. Ha, ha!” and while he was laughing at the recollection 
of Lowborough’s troubles, my uncle came and clapped him on 
the shoulder. 

“ Come, my lad !” said he. “ Are you too busy making love 
to my niece, to make war with the pheasants ? First of Octo- 
ber, remember! Sun shines out — ^rain ceased — even Boarham’s 
not afraid to venture in his waterproof boots ; and Wilmot and 
I are going to beat you all. I declare, we old ’uns are the 
keenest sportsmen of the lot!” 

“ I’ll show you what I can do to-day, however,” said my 
companion. “ I’ll murder your birds by wholesale, just for 
keeping me away from better company than either you or 
them.” 

V, And so saying he departed ; and I saw no more of him till 
dinner. It seemed a weary time : I wonder what I shall do 
without him. 

It is very true that the three elder gentlemen have proved 
themselves much keener sportsman than the two younger ones; 
for both Lord Lowborough and Arthur Huntingdon have of 
late, almost daily neglected the shooting excursions to accom- 
pany us in our various rides and rambles. But these merry 
times are fast drawing to a close. In less than a fortnight the 
party breaks up, much to my sorrow, for every day I enjoy it 
more and more — now that Messrs. Boarham and Wilmot have 
ceased to teaze me, and my aunt has ceased to lecture me, and 
I have ceased to be jealous of Annabella — and even to dislike 
her — and now that Mr. Huntingdon is become ?ny Arthur, and 
I may enjoy his society without restraint. What shall I do 
without him, I repeat ] 


CHAPTER XXIL 

TRAITS OF FRIENDSHIP. 

October 5th. — My cup of sweets is not unmingled : it ia 
dashed with a bitterness that I can not hide from myself, 
disguise it as I will. I may try to persuade myself that the 
sweetness oveipowers it*; I may call it a pleasant aromatic 
flavor ; but, say what I will, it is still there, and I can not but 
taste it. I can not shut my eyes to Arthur’s faults ; and the 
more I love him the more they trouble me. His very heart, 
that I trusted so, is, I fear, less warm and generous than I 
thought it. At least, he gave me a specimen of his character 
to-day, that seemed to merit a harder name than thoughtlessness. 
He and Lord Lowborough were accompanying Annabella and 
me in a long, delightful ride ; he was riding by my side, as 
usual, and Annabella and Lord Lowborough were a little 
before us, the latter bending toward his companion as if in 
tender and confidential discourse. 

“ Those two will get the start of us, Helen, if we don’t look 
sharp,” observed Huntingdon. “ They’ll make a match of it, 
as sure as can be. That Lowborough’s fairly besotted. But 
he’ll find himself in a fix when he’s got her, I doubt.” 

“And she’ll find herself in a fix when shets got Am,” said I, 
“ if what I have heard of him is true.” 

“Not a bit of it. She knows what she’s about ; but he, poor 
fool, deludes himself with the notion that she’ll make him a 
good wife, and because she has amused him with some rhodo- 
montade about despising rank and wealth in matters of love and 
marriage, he flatters himself that she’s devotedly attached to 
him ; that she will not refuse him for his poverty, and does not 
court him for his rank, but loves him for himself alone.” 

“ But is not he courting her for her fortune 1” 

“ No, not he. That was the first attraction, certainly ; but 
now, he has quite lost sight of it : it never enters his calculations, 
except merely as an essential without which, for the lady’s own 
sake, he could not think of manning her ; no ; he’s fairly in 
love. He thought he never could be again, but he’s in for it 
once more. He was to have been manied before, some two or 
three years ago ; but he lost his bride by losing his fortune. 


i 


156 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


He got into a bad way among us in London : he had an unfor- 
tunate taste for gambling ; and surely the fellow was born 
under an unlucky star, for he always lost thrice where he gained 
once. That’s a mode of self-torment I never was much addict- 
ed to ; when I spend my money I like to enjoy the full value of it : 
I see no fun in wasting it on thieves and black-legs ; and as for 
gaining money, hitherto I have always had sufficient ; it’s time 
enough to be clutching for more, I think, when you begin to see 
the end of what you have. But I have sometimes frequented 
the gaming-houses just to watch the on-goings of those mad vo- 
taries of chance — a very interesting study, I assure you, Helen, 
and sometimes very diverting : I’ve had many a laugh at the 
boobies and bedlamites. Lowborough was quite infatuated — 
not willingly, but of necessity. He was always resolving to give 
it up, and always breaking his resolutions. Every venture was 
the ‘just once more :’ if he gained a little, he hoped to gain a 
little more next time, and if he lost, it would not do to leave off 
at that juncture ; he must go on till he had retrieved that last 
misfortune, at least : bad luck could not last forever ; and every 
lucky hit was looked upon as the dawn of better times, till ex- 
perience proved the contrary. At length he grew desperate, and 
we were daily on the lookout for a case of felo-de-se — no great 
matter, some of us whispered, as his existence had ceased to be 
an acquisition to our club. At last, however, he came to a 
check. He made a large stake which he determined should be 
the last, whether he lost or won. He had often so determined 
before, to be sure, and as often broken his determination ; and 
so it was this time. He lost ; and while his antagonist smiling- 
ly swept away the stakes, he, turning chalky white, drew back 
in silence and wiped his forehead. I was present at the time ; 
and while he stood with folded arms and eyes fixed on the 
ground, I knew well enough what was passing in his mind. 

“ ‘ Is it to be the last, Lowborough V said I, stepping up to 
him. 

“ ‘ The last but one,’ he answered, with a grim smile ; and 
then, rushing back to the table, he struck his hand upon it, and 
raising his voice high above all the confusion of jingling coins and 
muttered oaths and curses in the room, he swore a deep and 
solemn oath that, come what would, this trial should be the 
last, and imprecated unspeakable curses on his head, if ever he 
should shuffle a card or rattle a dice-box again. He then dou- 
bled his former stake, and challenged any one present to play 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


167 


against him. Giimsby instantly presented himself. Lowbo- 
rough glared fiercely at him, for Grimsby was almost as cele- 
brated for his luck as he was for his ill-fortune. However, they 
fell to work. But Grimsby had mudi skill and little scruple, 
and whether he took advantage of the other’s trembling, blind- 
ed eagerness to deal unfairly by him, I can not undertake to say; 
but Lowborough lost again, and fell dead sick. 

“ ‘ You’d better try once more, said Grimsby, leaning across 
the table. And then he winked at me. 

“ ‘ I’ve nothing to try with,’ said the poor devil, with a 
ghastly smile. 

“ ‘ Oh, Huntingdon will lend you what you want,’ said the other. 

“ ‘ No ; you heard my oath,’ answered Lowborough, turning 
away in quiet despair. And I took him by the arm and led him 
out. 

“ ‘ Is it to be the last, Lowborough V I asked, when I got 
him into the street. 

“ ^The last,’ he answered, somewhat against my expectation. 
And I took him home — that is, to our club — for he was as sub- 
missive as a child, and plied him with brandy and water till he 
began to look rather brighter — rather more alive, at least. 

*• ‘ Huntingdon, I’m ruined !’ said he, taking the third glass 
from my hand — he had dmnk the other in dead silence. 

“ ‘ Not you !’ said I. ‘ You’ll find a man can live without 
his money as merrily as a tortoise without its head, or a wasp 
without its body.’ 

“ ‘ But I’m in debt,’ said he — ‘ deep in debt ! And I can ne- 
ver, never get out of it !’ 

“ ‘ Well, what of that % many abetter man than you has lived 
and died in debt, and they can’t put you in prison, you know, 
because you’re a peer.’ And I handed him his fourth tumbler. 

“ ‘ But I hate to be in debt !’ he shouted. ‘ I wasn’t bora for 
it, and I can not hear it !’ 

“ ‘ What can’t be cured must be endured,’ said I, beginning 
to mix the fifth. 

“ ‘ And, then, I’ve lost my Caroline.’ And he began to snivel, 
then, for the brandy had softened his heart. 

“ ‘ No matter,’ I answered, ‘there are more Carolines in the 
w^orld than one.’ 

“ ‘ There’s only'one for me,’ he replied, with a dolorous sigh. 
‘ And if there were fifty more, who’s to get them, I wonder, with- 
out money T 


158 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL. HALL. 


“ ‘ Oh, somebody will take you for your title ; and then you’ve 
your family estate yet ; that’s entailed, you know.’ 

“ ‘ I wish to God I could sell it to pay my debts,’ he muttered. 

“ ‘ And then,’ said Grimsby, who had just come in, ‘ you can 
try again, you know. I would have one more chance, if I were 
you. I’d never stop here.’ 

“ ‘ I wonH, I tell you !’ shouted he. And he started up, and 
left the room — walking rather unsteadily, for the liquor had got 
into his head. He was not so much used to it, then, but after 
that, he took to it kindly to solace his cares. 

“ He kept his oath about gambling (not a little to the surprise 
of us all), though Grimsby did his utmost to tempt him to break 
it ; but now he had got hold of another habit that bothered him 
nearly as much, for he soon discovered that the demon of drink 
was as black as the demon of play, and nearly as hard to get rid 
of — especially as his kind friends did all they could to second the 
promptings of his own insatiable cravings.” 

“ Then, they were demons themselves,” cried I, unable to con- 
tain my indignation. “ And you, Mr. Huntingdon, it seems, 
were the first to tempt him.” 

“ Well, what could we do ?” replied he, deprecatingly. “We 
meant it in kindness ; we could not bear to see the poor fellow 
so miserable : and, besides, he was such a damper upon us, sit- 
ting there, silent and glum, when he was under the threefold 
influence of the loss of his sweetheart, the loss of his fortune, 
and the reaction of the last night’s debauch ; whereas, when he 
had something in him, if he was not merry himself, he was an 
unfailing source of merriment to us. Even Grimsby could 
chuckle oyer his odd sayings ; they delighted him far more than 
my merry jests, or Hattersley’s riotous mirth. But one evening, 
when we were sitting over our wine, after one of our club din- 
ners, and had all been hearty together, Lowborough giving us 
mad toasts, and hearing our wild songs, and bearing a hand in 
the applause, if he did not help us to sing them himself; he sud- 
denly relapsed into silence, sinking his head on his hand, and 
never lifting his glass to his lips ; but this was nothing new; so 
we let him alone, and went on with our jollification, till, suddenly 
raising his head, he interrupted us in the middle of a roar of 
laughter, by exclaiming — 

“ ‘ Gentlemen, where is all this to end % Will you just tell 
me that, now % Where is it all to end V 

“ ‘ In hell fire,’ growled Grimsby. 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


159 


“ ‘ You’ve hit it ; I thought so !’ cried he. ‘ Well, then, I’ll 
tell you what’ — he rose. 

“ ‘ A speech, a speech !’ shouted w'e. ‘ Hear, hear ! Low- 
borough’s going to give us a speech !’ 

“ He waited calmly till the thunders of applause and jingling 
of glasses had ceased, and then proceeded — 

“ ‘ It’s only this, gentlemen, that I think we’d better go no 
farther. We’d better stop while we can.’ 

“ ‘ Just so !’ cried Hattersley — 

‘ Stop, poor sinner ! stop and think 
Before you farther go ; 

No longer sport upon the brink 
Of everlasting wo.’ 

“ ‘ Exactly !’ replied his lordship, with the utmost gravity. 
* And if you choose to visit the bottomless pit, I won’t go with 
you — we must part company, for I swear I’ll not move another 
step toward it ! What’s this ]’ he said, taking up his glass of 
wine. 

Taste it,’ suggested I. 

“ ‘ This is hell broth!’ he exclaimed. ‘ I renounce it forever 1’ 
And he threw it out into the middle of the table. 

“ ‘ Fill again !’ said I, handing him the bottle — ‘ and let us drink 
to your renunciation.’ 

“ ‘ It’s rank poison,’ said he, grasping the bottle by the neck, 
‘ and I forswear it ! I’ve given up gambling, and I’ll give up 
this, too.’ He was on the point of deliberately pouring the whole 
contents of the bottle upon the table, but Hargrave wrested it 
from him. ‘ On you be the curse, then 1’ said he. And, backing 
from the room, he shouted, ‘Farewell, ye tempters!’ and van- 
ished amid shouts of laughter and applause. 

“We expected him back among us the next day, but, to our 
surprise, the place remained vacant: we saw nothing of him for 
a whole week ; and we really began to think he was going to 
keep his word. At last, one evening, when we were most of us 
assembled together again, he entered, silent and grim as a ghost, 
and would have quietly slipped into his usual seat at my elbow, 
but we all rose to welcome him, and several voices were raised 
to ask what he would have, and several hands were busy with 
bottle and glass. to serve him; but I knew a smoking tumbler 
of brandy and water would comfort him best, and had nearly 
prepared it, when he peevishly pushed it away, saying — 


160 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ ‘ Do let me alone, Huntingdon ! Do be quiet,* all of 
you ! I’m not come to join you : I’m only come to be with you 
awhile, because I can’t bear my own thoughts.’ And he folded 
his anns and leaned back in his chair ; so we let him be. But 
I left the glass by him, and, after a while, Grimsby directed my 
attention toward it by a significant wink ; and, on turning my 
head, I saw it was drained to the bottom. He made me a sign 
to replenish, and quietly pushed up the bottle. I willingly com- 
plied ; but Lowborough detected the pantomime, and, nettled 
at the intelligent giins that were passing between us, snatched 
the glass from my hand, dashed the contents of it in Grimsby’s 
face, threw the empty tumbler at me, and then bolted from the 
room.” 

“ I hope he broke your head,” said I. 

“ No, love,” replied he, laughing immoderately at the recol- 
lection of the whole affair, “ he would have done so, and per- 
haps spoiled my face too, but providentially this forest of curls” 
(taking off his hat and showing his luxuriant chestnut locks) 
“ saved my skull, and prevented the glass from breaking till it 
reached the table.” 

“ After that,” he continued, “ Lowborough kept aloof from 
us a week or two longer. I used to meet him occasionally in 
the town, and then, as I was too good natured to resent his 
unmannerly conduct, and he bore no malice against me, he was 
never unwilling to talk to me : on the contrary, he would cling 
to me and follow me any where, but to the club and the gaming- 
houses, and such like dangerous places of resort — he was so 
weary of his own moping, melancholy mind. At last, I got 
him to come in with me to the club, on condition that I would 
not tempt him to drink, and for some time he continued to look 
in upon us pretty regularly of an evening, still abstaining, with 
w'oiiderful perseverance, from the ‘ rank poison’ he had so 
bravely forsworn. But some of our members protested against 
this conduct. They did not like to have him sitting there, like 
a skeleton at a feast, instead of contributing his quota to the 
general amusement, casting a cloud over all, and watching, 
with greedy eyes, every drop they carried to their lips. They 
vowed it was not fair, and some of them maintained that he 
should either be compelled to do as others did or expelled from 
the society ; and swore, that next time he showed himself they 
would tell him as much, and, if he did not take the warning, 
proceed to active measures. However, I befriended him on 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


161 


this occasion, and recommended them to let him be for a while, 
intimating, that with a little patience on our parts, he would 
soon come round again. But, to be sure, it was rather pro- 
voking ; for though he refused to drink like an honest Christian, 
it was well known to me that he kept a private bottle of laud- 
anum about him, which he was continually soaking at, or rather 
holding on and off with, abstaining one day and exceeding the 
next, just like the spirits. 

“ One night, however, during one of our orgies — one of our 
high festivals, I mean — he glided in, like the ghost in Macbeth, 
and seated himself, as usual, a little back from the table, in the 
chair we always placed for ‘ the specter,’ whether it chose to fill 
it or not. I saw by his face that he was suffering from the 
effects of an overdose of his insidious comforter ; but nobody 
spoke to him, and he spoke to nobody. A few sidelong glances, 
and a whispered observation that ‘ the ghost was come,’ Was all 
the notice he drew by his appearance, and we went on with 
our merry carousals as before, till he startled us all by suddenlv 
drawing in his chair and leaning forward with his elbows ' 
the table, and exclaiming with portentous solemnity — 

“‘Well! it puzzles me what you can find to be so meri^ 
about. What you see in life I don’t know — I see only the 
blackness of darkness and a fearful looking for of judgment and 
fiery indignation 1’ 

“ All the company simultaneously pushed up their glasses to 
him, and I set them before him in a semicircle, and, tenderly 
patting him on the back, bid him drink, and he would soon see 
as bright a prospect as any of us; but he pushed them back, 
muttering — 

“ ‘ Take them away! I won’t taste it, I tell you — I won’t — 
I won’t !’ So I handed them down again to the owners; but I 
saw that he followed them with a glare of hungry regi'et as they 
departed. Then he clasped his hands before his eyes to shut 
out the sight, and, two minutes after, lifted his head again, and 
said, in a hoarse but vehement whisper — 

“ ‘ And yet I must ! Huntingdon, get me a glass !’ 

“ ‘ Take the bottle, man !’ said I, thrusting the brandy-bottle 
into his hand — but stop, I’m telling too much,” muttered the 
narrator, startled at the look I turned upon him. “ But no 
matter,” he recklessly added, and thus continued his relation — 
“ In his desperate eagerness he seized the bottle, and sucked 
away, till he suddenly dropped from his chair, disappearing 


162 


THE TENANT OP WILDFELL HALL. 


under the table amid a tempest of applause. The consequence 
of this imprudence was something like an apoplectic fit, followed 
by a rather severe brain fever — ” 

“ And what did you think of yourself^ sir]” said I, quickly. 

“ Of course, I was very penitent,” he replied. “ I went to 
see him once or twice — nay, twice or thrice — or, by’r lady, some 
four times — and when he got better, I tenderly brought him 
back to the fold.” 

“ What do you mean ]” 

“ I mean I restored him to the bosom of the club, and com- 
passionating the feebleness of his health and extreme lowness of 
his spirits, I recommended him to ‘ take a little wine for his 
stomach’s sake,’ and, when he was sufficiently re-established, to 
embrace the media-via, ni-jamais-ni-toujours plan — not to kill 
himself like a fool, and not to abstain like a ninny — in a word, 
to enjoy himself like a rational creature, and do as I did. For 
don’t think, Helen, that I’m a tippler ; I’m nothing at all of the 
kind, and never was, and never shall be. I value my comfort 
far too much. I see that a man can not give himself up to 
drinking without being miserable one half his days and mad 
the other ; besides, I like to enjoy my life at all sides and ends, 
which can not be done by one that suffers himself to be the 
slave of a single propensity ; and moreover, drinking spoils one’s 
good looks,” he concluded, with a most conceited smile, that 
ought to have provoked me more than it did. 

“And did Lord Lowborough profit by your advice]” I 
asked. 

“ Why, yes, in a manner. For a while, he managed very 
well ; indeed, he was a model of moderation and prudence — 
something too much so for the tastes of our wild community — 
but, somehow, Lowborough had not the gift of moderation; if 
he stumbled a little to one side, he must go down before he could 
right himself : if he overshot the mark one night, the effects of 
it rendered him so miserable the next day that he must repeat 
the offense to mend it ; and so on from day to day, till his clam* 
orous conscience brought him to a stand. And then, in his 
sober moments, he so bothered his friends with his remorse, and 
his terrors and woes, that they were obliged, in self-defense, to 
get him to drown his sorrows in wine, or any more potent bever- 
age that came to hand ; and when his first scruples of conscience 
were overcome, he would need no more persuading ; he would 
often grow desperate, and be as great a blackguard as any ot 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


163 


them could desire — ^but only to lament his own unutterable 
wickedness and degradation the more when the fit was over. 

“ At last, one day when he and I were alone together, after 
pondering awhile in one of his gloomy, abstracted moods, with 
his arms folded, and his head sunk on his breast, he suddenly 
woke up, and vehemently grasping my arm, said — 

“ * Huntingdon, this won’t do ! I’m resolved to have done 
with it.’ 

“ ‘ What, are you going to shoot yourself!’ said I. 

No ; I’m going to reform.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, that's nothing new ! You’ve been going to reform these 
twelve months and more.’ 

“‘Yes, but you wouldn’t let me; and I was such a fool I 
couldn’t live without you. But now I see what it is that keeps 
me back, and what’s wanted to save me ; and I’d compass sea 
and land to get it — only I’m afraid there’s no chance.’ And he 
sighed as if his heart would break. 

“ ‘ What is it, Lowborough V said I, thinking he was fairly 
cracked at last. 

“ ‘ A -svife,’ he answered ; ‘ for I can’t live alone, because my 
own mind distracts me, and I can’t live wdth you, because you 
take the devil’s part against me.’ 

« < Who— I V 

“ ‘ Yes — all of you do — and you more than any of them, you 
know. But if I could get a wife, with fortune enough to pay off 
my debts, and set me straight in the world — ’ 

“ ‘ To be sure,’ said I. 

“ ‘ And sweetness and goodness enough,’ he continued, ‘ to 
make home tolerable, and to reconcile me to myself, I think I 
should do yet. I shall never be in love again, that’s certain; 
but perhaps that would be no great matter, it would enable me 
to choose with my eyes open ; and I should make a good hus- 
band in spite of it. But could any one be in love with me 1 — 
that’s the question. With your good looks and powers of fasci- 
nation’ (he W 2 LS pleased to say), ‘ I might hope ; but as it is, 
Huntingdon, do you think any body would take me — ruined 
and wretched as I am V 

“ ‘ Yes, certainly.’ 

“ ‘ Who V 

“ ‘ Why, any neglected old maid, fast sinking in despair, would 
be delighted to — ’ 

“ ‘ No, no,’ said he, ‘ it must be somebody that I can love.’ 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


IGl 


“ ‘ Why, you just said you never could be in love again/ 

“ ‘ Well, love is not the word — but somebody that I can like. 
I’ll search all England through, at all events !’ he cried, with a 
sudden burst of hope or desperation. ‘ Succeed or fail, it will 
be better than rushing headlong to destruction at that d — d 
club : so farewell to it and you. Whenever I meet you on 
honest gi'ound, or under a Christian roof, I shall be glad to see 
you ; but never more shall you entice me to that deviVs den P 

“ This was shameful language, but I shook hands with him, 
and we parted. He kept his word; and from that time forward, 
he has been a pattern of propriety, as far as I can tell ; but, till 
lately, I have not had very much to do with him. He occasion- 
ally sought my company, but as frequently shrunk from it, fear- 
ing lest I should wile him back to destruction, and I found him 
not very entertaining, especially, as he sometimes attempted to 
awaken my conscience, and draw me from the perdition he 
considered himself to have escaped ; but when I did happen to 
meet him, I seldom failed to ask after the progress of his matri- 
monial efforts and researches, and, in general, he could give me 
but a poor account. The mothers were repelled by his empty 
coffers, and his reputation for gambling, and the daughters by 
his cloudy brow and melancholy temper — besides, he didn’t un- 
derstand them ; he wanted the spirit and assurance to carry his 
point. 

I left him at it when I went to the continent ; and on my re- 
turn, at the year’s end, I found him still a disconsolate bachelor; 
though, certainly, looking somewhat less like an unblest exile 
from the tomb than before. The young ladies had ceased to be 
afraid of him, and were beginning to think him quite interesting ; 
but the mammas were still unrelenting. It was about this time, 
Helen, that my good angel brought me into conjunction with 
you ; and then I had eyes and ears for nobody else. But mean 
time, Lowborough became acquainted with our charming friend. 
Miss Wilmot — through the intervention of his good angel, no 
doubt he would tell you, though he did not dare to fix his hopes 
on one so courted and admired, till after they were brought into 
closer contact here at Staningley, and she, in the absence of her 
other admirers, indubitably courted his notice and held out every 
encouragement to his timid advances. Then indeed, he began 
to hope for a dawn of brighter days ; and if, for a while, I dark- 
ened his prospects by standing between him and his sun, and 
so nearly plunged him again into the abyss of despair, it only 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


165 


intensified his ardor and strengthened his hopes when I chose to 
abandon the field in pursuit of a brighter treasure. In a word, 
as I told you, he is fairly besotted. At first, he could dimly per- 
ceive her faults, and they gave him considerable uneasiness; but 
now his passion and her art together, have blinded him to every 
thing but her perfections, and his amazing good fortune. Last 
night he came to me brimful of his new-found felicity : — 

“ ‘ Huntingdon, I am not a castaway !’ said he, seizing my 
hand and squeezing it like a vice. * There is happiness in store 
for me yet — even in this life — she loves me !’ 

“ ‘ Indeed !’ said I, ‘ Has she told you so V 

“‘No, but I can no longer doubt it. Do you not see how 
pointedly kind and affectionate she is] And she knows the 
utmost extent of my poverty, and cares nothing about it ! She 
knows all the folly and all the wickedness of my former life, and 
is not afraid to trust me — and my rank and title are no allure- 
ments to her; for them she utterly disregards. She is the 
most generous, high-minded being that can be conceived of. 
She will save me, body and soul, from destruction. Already, 
she has ennobled me in my own estimation, and made me three 
times better, wiser, greater than I was. Oh ! if I had but 
known her before, how much degradation and misery I should 
have been spared! But what have I done to deserve so mag- 
nificent a creature V 

“And the cream of the jest,” continued Mr. Huntingdon, 
laughing, “is that the artful minx loves nothing about him, but 
his title and pedigree, and ‘ that delightful old family seat.’ ” 

“How do you know?” said I. 

“ She told me so herself; she said, ‘ as for the man himself, I 
thoroughly despise him ; but then, I suppose, it is time to be 
making my choice, and if I waited for some one capable of 
eliciting my esteem and affection, I should have to pass my life 
in single blessedness, for I detest you all 1’ Ha, ha 1 I suspect 
she was wrong there ; but, however, it is evident that she has 
no love for /lim, poor fellow.” 

“ Then you ought to tell him so.” 

“ What, and spoil all her plans and prospects, poor girl ] 
No, no: that would be a breach of confidence, wouldn’t it, 
Helen ] Ha, ha ! Besides, it would break his heart.” And 
he laughed again. 

“ Well, Mr. Huntingdon, I don’t know what you see so ama- 
zingly diverting in the matter 1 I see nothing to laugh at.” 


166 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ I’m laughing al you^ just now, love,” said he, redoubling his 
cachinnations. 

And leaving him to enjoy his meniment alone, I touched 
Ruby with the whip, and cantered on to rejoin our companions ; 
for we had been walking our horses all this time, and were 
consequently a long way behind. Arthur was soon at my side 
again ; but not disposed to talk to him, I broke into a gallop. 
He did the same; and we did not slacken our pace till we 
came up with Miss Wilmot and Lord Lowborough, which was 
within half a mile of the park gates. I avoided all further con- 
versation with him, till we came to the end of our ride, when I 
meant to j ump off my horse and vanish into the house, before he 
could offer his assistance; but while I was disengaging my 
habit from the crutch, he lifted me off, and held me by both 
hands, asserting that he would not let me go till I had forgiven 
him. 

“ I have nothing to forgive,” said I. “ You have not injured 
me.” 

“ No, darling — God forbid that I should ! but you are angry, 
because it was to me that Annabella confessed her lack of 
esteem for her lover.” 

“No, Arthur, it is not that that displeases me: it is the whole 
system of your conduct toward your friend ; and if you wish 
me to forget it, go, now, and tell him what sort of a woman it 
is that he adores so madly, and on whom he has hung his hopes 
of future happiness.” 

“ I tell you, Helen, it would break his heart— it would be the 
death of him, besides being a scandalous trick to poor Anna- 
bella. There is no help for him now ; he is past praying for. 
Besides, she may keep up the deception to the end of the 
chapter ; and then he will be just as happy in the illusion as if 
it were reality ; or perhaps, he will only discover his mistake when 
he has ceased to love her ; and if not, it is much better that the 
truth should dawn gradually upon him. So now, my angel, I 
have made out a clear case, and fully convinced you that I can 
not make the atonement you require. What other requisition 
have you to make ] Speak, and I will gladly obey.” 

“ I have none but this,” said I, as gravely as before ; “that, in 
future, you will never make a jest of the sufferings of others, 
and always use your influence with your friends for their own 
advantage against their evil propensities, instead of seconding 
their evil propensities against themselves.” 


THE TENANT OP WILDFELL HALL. 


167 


“ I will do my utmost,” said he, “ to remember and perform . 
the injunctions of my angel monitress,” and after kissing both 
my gloved hands, he let me go. 

When I entered my room, I was surprised to see Annabella 
Wilmot standing before my toilet-table, composedly surveying 
her features in the glass, with one hand flirting her gold-mounted 
whip, and the other holding up her long habit. 

” She certainly is a magnificent creature !” thought I, as I 
beheld that tall, finely developed figure, and the reflection of 
the handsome face in the mirror before me, with the glossy 
dark hair, slightly and not ungracefully disordered by the 
breezy ride, the rich brown complexion glowing with exercise, 
and the black eyes sparkling with unwonted brilliancy. On 
percei’^ing me, she turned round exclaiming, with a laugh that 
savored more of malice than of mirth — 

“ Why, Helen ! what have you been doing so long ? I came 
to tell you my good fortune,” she continued, regardless of 
Rachel’s presence. “ Lord Lowborough has proposed^ and I 
have been graciously pleased to accept him. Don’t you envy 
me, dearl” 

' “ No, love,” said I, “ or him either,” I mentally added. “And 
do you like him, Annabella 

“ Like him ! - yes, to be sure — over head and ears in love 1” 

“ Well, I hope you’ll make him a good wife.” 

“ Thank you, my dear ! And what besides do you hope 

“ I hope you will both love each other, and both be happy.” 

“ Thanks ; and I hope you will make a very good wife to 
Mr. Huntingdon !” said she, with a queenly bow, and retired. 

“ Oh, miss ! how could you say so to her I” cried Rachel. 

“ Say what I” replied I. 

“ Why, that you hoped she would make him a good wife — 

T never heard such a thing !” * 

“ Because I do hope it — or, rather, I wish it. She’s almost*^ 
past hope.” 

“ Well !” said she, “ I’m sure I hope he’ll make her a good 
husband. They tell queer things about him down stairs. They 
were saying — ” 

“ I know, Rachel — I’ve heard all about him ; but he’s re- 
formed now. And they have no business to tell tales about 
their masters.” 

“No, mum — or else, they have said some things about Mr. 
Huntingdon too.” 


168 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ I won’t hear them, Rachel ; they tell lies,” 

“ Yes, mum,” said she, quietly, as she went on arranging ray 
hair. 

“ Do you believe them, Rachel ]” I asked, after a short 
pause. 

“No, miss, not all. You know when a lot of servants gets 
together, they like to talk about their betters ; and some, for a 
bit of swagger, likes to make it appear as though they knew 
more than they do, and to throw out hints and things, just to 
astonish the others. But I think, if I was you. Miss Helen, 
I’d look very well before I leaped. I do believe a young lady 
can’t be too careful who she marries.” 

“ Of course not,” said I ; “ but be quick, will you, Rachel % 
I want to be dressed.” 

- And, indeed, I was anxious to be rid of the good w’oman, 
for I was in such a melancholy frame I could hardly keep the 
tears out of my eyes while she dressed me. It was not for 
Lord Lowborough — it was not for Annabella — it was not for 
myself — it was for Arthur Huntingdon that they rose. 

13th. — They are gone — and he is gone. We are to be 
parted for more than two months — above ten weeks ! a long, 
long time to live and not to see him. But he has promised to 
write often, and made me promise to write still oftener, be- 
cause he will be busy settling his affairs, and I shall have noth- 
ing better to do. Well, I think I shall always have plenty to 
say. But oh ! for the time when we shall be always together, 
and can exchange our thoughts without the intervention of 
these cold go-betweens, pen, ink, and paper ! 

22d. — I have had several letters from Arthur, already. 
They are not long, but passing sweet, and just like himself — 
full of ardent affection, and playful, lively humor; but — there 
is always a hut in this imperfect world — and Ido wish he would 
sometimes be serious. I can not get him to write or speak in 
real, solid earnest. I don’t much mind it now ; but if it be 
always so, what shall I do with the serious part of myself I 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

FIRST WEEKS OF MATRIMONY. 

Feb. 18 th, 1822 . — Early this morning, Arthur mounted his 

hunter, and set off in high glee to meet the hounds. He 

will be away all day ; and so I will amuse myself with my'neg- 
lected diary — if I can give that name to such an irregular com- 
position. It is exactly four months since I opened it last. 

I am married now, and settled down as Mrs. Huntingdon of 
Grassdale Manor. I have had eight weeks’ experience of 
matrimony. And do I regret the step I have taken"? No — 
though I must confess, in my secret heart, that Arthur is not 
what I thought him at first, and if I had known him in the 
beginning, as thoroughly as I do now, I probably never should 
have loved him, and if I had loved him first, and then made 
the discovery, I fear I should have thought it my duty not to 
have married him. To be sure, I might have known him, for 
every one was willing enough to tell me about him, and he 
himself was no accomplished hypocrite, but I was willfully 
blind, and now, instead of regretting that I did not discern 
his full character before I was indissolubly bound to him, I am 
glad ; for it has saved me a great deal of battling with my con- 
science, and a great deal of consequent trouble and pain ; and, 
whatever I ought to have done, my duty, now, is plainly to 
love him and to cleave to him ; and this just tallies with my in- 
clination. 

He is very fond of me ; almost ^oafond. I could do with less 
caressing and more rationality : I should like to be less of a pet 
and more of a friend, if I might choose — but I won’t complain 
of that : I am only afraid his affection loses in depth where it 
gains in ardor. I sometimes liken it to a fire of dry twigs and 
branches, compared with one of solid coal — very bright and hot, 
but if it should burn itself out and leave nothing but ashes be- 
hind, what shall Ido"? But it won’t — it shan't, I am determined 
— and surely I have power to keep it alive. So let me dismiss 
that thought at once. But Arthur is selfish — I am constrained 
to acknowledge that ; and, indeed, the admission gives me less 
pain than might be expected ; for, since I love him so much, I 
can easily forgive him for loving himself ; he likes to be pleased, 


170 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


and it is my delight to please him ; and when I regret this ten- 
dency of his, it is for his own sake, not for mine. 

The first instance he gave was on the occasion of our bridal 
tour. He wanted to hurry it over, for all the continental scenes 
were already familiar to him : many had lost their interest m 
his eyes, and others had never had any thing to lose. The con- 
sequence was, that, after a flying transit through part of France 
and part of Italy, I came back nearly as ignorant as I went, 
having made no acquaintance with persons and manners, and 
very little with things — my head swarming with a motley con- 
fusion of objects and scenes — some, it is true, leaving a deeper 
and more pleasing impression than others, but these embittered 
by the recollection that my emotions had not, been shared by my 
companion, but that, on the contrary, when I had expressed a 
particular interest in any thing that I saw or desired to see, it 
had been displeasing to him in as much as it proved that I could 
take delight in any thing disconnected with himself. 

As for Paris, we only just touched at that, and he would not 
give me time to see one tenth of the beauties and interesting 
objects of Rome. He wanted to get me home, he said, to have 
me all to himself, and to see me safely installed as the mistress 
of Grassdale Manor, just as single minded, as naive and 
piquante as I was ; and, as if I had been some frail butterfly, 
he expressed himself fearful of rubbing the silver off my wings 
by bringing me into contact with society, especially that of Paris 
and Rome ; and, moreover, he did not scruple to tell me that 
there were ladies in both places that would tear his eyes out if 
they happened to meet him with me. 

Of course, I was vexed at all this ; but, still, it was less the 
disappointment to myself that annoyed me, than the disappoint- 
ment in him, and the trouble I was at to frame excuses to my 
friends for having seen and observed so little, without imputing 
one particle of blame to my companion. But when we got 
home — to my- new, delightful home; I was so happy and he 
was so kind that I freely forgave him all ; and I was beginning 
to think my lot too happy, and my husband actually too good 
for me, if not too good for this world, when, on the second Sun- 
day after our amval, he shocked and horrified me by another 
instance of his unreasonable exaction. We were walking home 
from the morning service ; for it was a fine frosty day, and, as 
we are so near the church, I had requested the carriage should 
not be used : — 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


171 


“ Helen,” said he, with unusual gravity, “ I am not quite sat- 
isfied with you.” 

I desired to know what was wrong. 

“ But will you promise to reform, if I tell you ]” 

“Yes, if I can ; and without offending a higher authoiity.” 

“ Ah ! there it is, you see ; you don’t love me with all your 
heart.” 

“I don’t understand you, Arthur (at least, I hope I don’t): 
pray tell me what I have done or said amiss 1” 

“ It is nothing you have done or said ; it is something that you 
are : you are too religious. Now I like a woman to be reli- 
gious, and I think your piety one of your greatest charms, but 
then, like all other good things, it maybe carried too far. To 
my thinking, a woman’s religion ought not to lessen her devo- 
tion to her earthly lord. She should have enough to purify 
and etherealize her soul, but not enough to refine away her 
heart, and raise her above all human sympathies.” 

“ And am I above all human sympathies 1” said I. 

“ No, darling; but you are making more progress toward 
that saintly condition than I like ; for, all these two hours, T 
have been thinking of you and wanting to catch your eye, and 
you were so absorbed in your devotions that you had not even 
a glance to spare for me — I declare, it is enough to make one 
jealous of one’s Maker — which is very wrong, you know ; so 
don’t excite such wicked passions again, for my soul’s sake.” 

“ I will give my whole heart and soul to my Maker if I can,” 
I answered, “ and not one atom more of it to you than he 
allows. What are you, sir, that you should set yourself up as 
a god, and presume to dispute possession of my heart with 
Him to whom I owe all I have and all I am, every blessing I 
ever did or ever can enjoy — and yourself among the rest — if 
you are a blessing, which I am half inclined to doubt.” 

“ Don’t be so hard upon me, Helen ; and don’t pinch my 
arm so, you’re squeezing your fingers into the bone.” 

“ Arthur,” continued I, relaxing my hold of his arm, “ you 
don’t love me half as much as I do you ; and yet, if you loved 
me far less than you do, I would not complain, provided you 
loved your Maker more. I should rejoice to see you at any 
time so deeply absorbed in your devotions that you had not 
a single thought to spare for me. But, indeed, I should' lose 
nothing by the change ; for the more you loved your God, the 
more deep, and pure, and true would be your love to me.” 


172 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


Af this he only laughed, and kissed my hand, calling me a 
sweet enthusiast. Then taking off his hat, he added — 

“ But look here, Helen — what can a man do with such a 
head as this 

The head looked right enough, but when he placed my hand 
on the top of it, it sunk in a bed of curls, rather alarmingly low, 
especially in the middle. 

^ “ You see I was not made to be a saint,” said he, laughing. 
“ If God meant me to be religious, why did’nl he give me a 
proper organ of veneration ]” 

“ You are like the servant,” I replied, “ who instead of em- 
ploying his one talent in his master’s service, restored it to him 
unimproved, alleging, as an excuse, that he knew him ‘ to be a 
hard man, reaping where he had not sown and gathering where 
he had not strawed.’ Of him, to whom less is given, less will 
be required ; but our utmost exertions are required of us all. 
You are not without the capacity of veneration, and faith, and 
hope, and conscience, and reason, and every other requisite to a 
Christian’s character, if you choose to employ them; but all our 
talents increase in the using, and every faculty, both good and 
bad, strengthens by exercise ; therefore, if you choose to use the 
bad — or those which tend to evil, till they become your masters, 
and neglect the good till they dwindle away, you have only 
yourself to blame. But you have talents, Arthur — natural en- 
dowments, both of heart and mind and temper, such as many a 
better Christian would be glad to possess — if you would only 
employ them in God’s service. I should never expect to see 
you a devotee ; but it is quite possible to be a good Christian 
without ceasing to be a happy, merry-hearted man.” 

“ You speak like an oracle, Helen, and all you say is indis- 
putably true ; but listen here : I am hungiy, and I see before 
me a good, substantial dinner ; I am told that, if I abstain from 
this to-day, I shall have a sumptuous feast to-morrow, consist- 
ing of all manner of dainties and delicacies. Now, in the first 
place, I should be loath to wait till to-morrow, when I have the 
means of appeasing my hunger already before me ; in the second 
place, the solid viands of to-day are more to my taste than the 
' dainties that are promised me ; in the third place, I don’t see 
' to-morrow’s banquet, and how can I tell that it is not all a fable, 
got up by the greasy-faced fellow that is advising me to abstain, 
in order that he may have all the good victuals to himself'? in 
the fourth place, this table must be spread for somebody, and, 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


173 


as Solomon says, ‘ Who can eat, or who else can hasten here- 
unto more than I V and finally, with your leave. I’ll sit down 
and satisfy my cravings of to-day, and leave to-morrow to shift 
for itself — who knows but what I may secure both this and 
that r’ 

“ But you are not required to abstain from the substantial 
dinner of to-day; you are only advised to partake of these coarser 
viands in such moderation as not to incapacitate you from en- 
joying the choicer banquet of to-morrow. If, regardless of that 
counsel, you choose to make a beast of yourself now, and over- 
eat and over-drink yourself till you turn the good victuals into 
poison, who is to blame if, hereafter, while you are suffering the 
torments of yesterday’s gluttony and drunkenness, you see more 
temperate men sitting down to enjoy themselves at that splendid 
entertainment which you are unable to taste ]” 

“ Most true, my patron saint; but again, our friend Solomon 
says — ‘ There is nothing better for a man than to eat, and to 
drink, and to be merry.’ ” 

“ And again,” returned I, “ he says, ‘ Rejoice, O young man, 
in thy youth, and walk in the ways of thine heart, and in the 
sight of thine eyes; but know thou that, for all these things, God 
will bring thee into judgment.’ ” 

“ Well, but, Helen, I’m sure I’ve been very good these last 
few weeks. What have you seen amiss in me ; and what would 
you have me to do V’ 

“ Nothing more than you do, Arthur : your actions are all 
right, so far; but I would have your thoughts changed ; I would 
have you to fortify yourself against temptation, and not to call evil 
good, and good, evil ; I should wish you to think more deeply, 
to look farther, and aim higher than you do.” 

We now stood before our own door, and I said no more ; 
but, with an ardent and tearful embrace, I left him and went 
into the house, and up-stairs to take off* my bonnet and mantle. 
I wished to say nothing more on that subject at the time, lest I 
should disgust him with both it and me. 


/ 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

FIRST QUARREL. 

March 25th. — Arthur is gettingtired — not of me, I tnist, but 
of the idle, quiet life’ he leads — and no wonder, for he has so few 
sources of amusement ; he never reads any thing but news- 
papers and sporting magazines ; and when he sees me occupied 
with a book, he won’t let me rest till I close it. In fine weather 
he generally manages to get through the time pretty well ; but 
on rainy days, of which we have had a good many of late, it is 
quite painful to witness his ennui. I do all I can to amuse him, 
but it is impossible to get him to feel interested in what I most 
like to talk about ; while, on the other hand, he likes to talk 
about things that can not interest me — or even that annoy me — 
and these please him the most of all; for his favorite amusement 
is to sit or loll beside me on the sofa, and tell me stories of his for- 
mer amours, always turning upon the ruin of some confiding girl, 
or the cozening of some unsuspecting husband; and when I ex- 
press my horror and indignation, he lays it all to the charge of 
jealousy, and laughs till the tears run down his cheeks. I used 
to fly into passion or melt into tears at first, but seeing that his 
delight increased in proportion to my anger and agitation, I 
have since endeavored to suppress my feelings, and receive his 
revelations in the silence of calm contempt ; but still, he reads 
the inward struggle in my face, and misconstrues my bitterness 
of soul for his unworthiness into the pangs of wounded jealousy; 
and when he has sufficiently diverted himself with that, or fears 
my displeasure will become too serious for his comfort, he tries 
to kiss and sooth me into smiles again — never were his caresses 
so little welcome as then ! This is double selfishness, displayed 
to me and to the victims of his former love. There are times 
when, with a momentary pang — a flash of wild dismay, I ask 
myself, Helen, what have you done But I rebuke the in- 
ward questioner, and repel the obtrusive thoughts that crowd 
upon me ; for, were he ten times as sensual and impenetrable to 
good and lofty thoughts, I well know I have no right to com- 
plain. And I don’t and won’t complain. I do and will love him 
still; and I do not and will not regret that I have linked my fate 
with his. 


THE TENANT OF VVILDFELL HALL. 


175 


April 4th. — We have had a downright quarrel. The particu- 
lars are as follow : — Arthur had told me, at different intervals, 
the whole story of his intrigue with Lady F — , which I would 
not believe before. It was some consolation, however, to find 
that, in this instance, the lady had been more to blame than he ; 
for he was very young at the time, and she had decidedly made 
the first advances, if what he said was true. I hated her for it, 
for it seemed as if she had chiefly contributed to his corruption, 
and when he was beginning to talk about her the other day, I 
begged he would not mention her, for I detested the very Sound 
of her name. 

“ Not because you loved her, Arthur, mind, but because she 
injured you, and deceived her husband, and was altogether a 
very abominable woman, whom you ought to be ashamed to 
mention.” 

But he defended her by saying that she had a doting old hus- 
band, whom it was impossible to love. 

“ Then why did she marry him ?” said I. 

For his money,” was the reply. 

“ Then that was another crime, and her solemn promise to 
love and honor him was another, that only increased the enor- 
mity of the last.” 

“ You are too severe upon the poor lady,” laughed he. “But 
never mind, Helen, I don’t care for her now ; and I never loved 
any of them half as much as I do you ; so you needn’t fear to 
be forsaken like them.” 

“ If you had told pie these things before, Arthur, I never 
should have given you the chance.” 

“ Wouldn't you, my darling !” 

“ Most certainly not !” 

He laughed incredulously. 

“ I wish I could convince you of it now !” cried I, starting 
up from beside him; and for the first time in my life, and I 
hope the last, I wished I had not married him. 

“ Helen,” said he, more gravely, “ do you know that if I be- 
lieved you now, I should be very angry I — but, thank Heaven, 
I don’t. Though you stand there with your white face and 
flashing eyes, looking at me like a very tigress, I know the heart 
within you, perhaps a trifle better than you know it yourself.” 

Without another word, I left the room, and locked myself up 
in my own chamber. In about half an hour he came to the 
door ; and first he tried the handle, then he knocked. 


176 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ Won’t you let me in, Helen said he. 

“ No; you have displeased me,” I replied, “and I don’t want 
to see your face or hear your voice again till the morning.” 

He paused a moment, as if dumbfoundered or uncertain how 
to answer such a speech, and then turned and walked away. 
This was only an hour after dinner : I knew he would find it 
very dull to sit alone all the evening; and this considerably 
softened my resentment, though it did not make me relent. I 
was determined to show him that my heart was not his slave, 
and I could live without him if I chose ; and I sat down and 
wrote a long letter to my aunt — of course telling her nothing of 
all this. Soon after ten o’clock I heard him come up again ; 
but he passed my door and went straight to his own dressing- 
room, where he shut himself in for the night. 

I was rather anxious to see how he would ijieet me in the 
morning, and not a little disappointed to behold him enter the 
breakfast-room with a careless smile. 

“ Are you cross still, Helen 1” said he, approaching as if to 
salute me. I coldly turned to the table, and began to pour out 
the coffee, observing that he was rather late. 

He uttered a low whistle, and sauntered away to the window, 
w'here he stood for some minutes looking out upon the pleasing 
prospect of sullen, gray clouds, streaming rain, soaking lawn, 
and dripping, leafless trees — and muttering execrations on the 
weather, and then sat down to breakfast. While taking hia 
coffee, he muttered it was “ d — d cold.” 

“You should not have left it so long,”^said I. 

He made no answer, and the meal was concluded in silence. 
It was a relief to both when the letter-bag was brought in. It 
contained, upon examination, a newspaper and one or two 
letters for him, and a couple of letters for me, which he tossed 
across the table without a remark. One was from my brother, 
the other from Milicent Hargrave, who is now in London with 
her mother. His, I think, were business letters, and apparent- 
ly not much to his mind, for he crushed them into his pocket 
with some muttered expletives, that I should have reproved 
him for at any other time. The paper, he set before him, and 
pretended to be deeply absorbed in its contents during the 
remainder of breakfast, and a considerable time after. 

The reading and answering of my letters, and the direction 
of household concerns, afforded me ample employment for the 
morning ; after lunch, I got my drawing, and from dinner till 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


177 


bed time, I read. Meanwhile, poor Arthur was sadly at a loss 
for something to amuse him or to occupy his time. He wanted 
to appear as busy and as unconcerned as I did : had the 
weather at all permitted, he would doubtless have ordered his 
horse and set off to some distant region — no matter where — 
-'mmediately after breakfast, and not returned till night; had 
here been a -lady any where within reach, of any age between 
ifteen and forty -five, he would have sought revenge and found 
employment in getting up, or trying to get up, a desperate flirt- 
ation with her ; but being, to my private satisfaction, entirely 
cut off from both these sources of diversion, his sufferings were 
truly deplorable. When he had done yawning over his paper, 
and scribbling short answers to his shorter letters, he spent the 
remainder of the morning and the whole of the afternoon in 
fidgeting about from room to room, watching the clouds, curs- 
ing the rain, alternately petting, and teazing, and abusing his 
dogs, sometimes lounging on the sofa with a book that he could 
not force himself to read, and very often fixedly gazing at me, 
when he thought I did not perceive it, with the vain hope of 
detecting some traces of tears, or some tokens of remorseful 
anguish in my face. But I managed to preserve an undisturbed, 
though grave serenity throughout the day. I was not really 
angry : I felt for him all the time, and longed to be reconciled ; 
but I determined he should make the first advances, or at least 
show some signs of an humble and contrite spirit first ; for, if 
I began, it would only minister to his self-conceit, increase his 
arrogance, and quite destroy the lesson I wanted to give him. 

He made a long stay in the dining-room after dinner, and, I 
fear, took an unusual quantity of wine, but not enough to 
loosen his tongue ; for when he came in and found me quietly 
occupied with my book, too busy to lift my head on his entrance, 
he merely murmured an expression of suppressed disapproba- 
tion, and, shutting the door with a bang, went and stretched 
himself at full length on the sofa, and composed himself to 
sleep. But his favorite cocker. Dash, that had been lying at 
my feet, took the liberty of jumping upon him and beginning 
to lick his face. He struck it off with a smart blow ; and the 
poor dog squeaked, and ran cowering back to me. When he 
woke up, about half an hour after, he called it to him again ; 
but Dash only looked sheepish and wagged the tip of his tail. 
He called again, more sharply, but Dash only clung the closer 
to me, and licked my hand, as if imploring protection. Enraged 


178 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


at this, his master snatched up a heavy book and hurled it at 
his head. The poor dog set up a piteous outcry, and ran to the 
door. I let him out, and then quietly took up the book. 

“ Give that book to me,” said Arthur, in no very courteous 
tone. I gave it to him. 

“Why did you let the dog out]” he asked. “You kneAV I 
wanted him.” 

“ By wbat token ]” I replied ; “ by your throwing the book 
at him ] but perhaps, it was intended for me ]” 

“ No — but I see you’ve got a taste of it,” said he, looking 
at my hand, that had also been struck, and was rather severely 
grazed. 

I returned to my reading ; and he endeavored to occupy 
himself in the same manner ; but, in a little while, after several 
portentous yawns, he pronounced his book to be “ cursed' 
trash,” and threw it on the table. Then followed eight or ten 
minutes of silence, during the greater part of which, I believe, 
he was staring at me. At last his patience was tired out 

“ What %s that book, Helen 1” he exclaimed. 

I told him. 

“ Is it interesting ]” 

“Yes, very.” 

“ Humph !” 

I went on reading — or pretending to read, at least — I can 
not say there was much communication between my eyes and 
my brain ; for, while the former ran over the pages, the latter 
was earnestly wondering when Arthur would speak next, and 
what he would say, and what I should answer. But he did not 
speak again till I rose to make the tea, and then it was only to 
say he should not take any. He continued lounging on the 
sofa, and alternately closing his eyes and looking at his watch 
and at me, till bed-time, when I rose, and took my candle and 
retired. 

“ Helen !” cried he, the moment I had left the room. 1 
turned back, and stood awaiting his commands. 

“ What do you want, Arthur ]” I said at length. 

“ Nothing,” replied he. “ Go.” 

I went, but hearing him mutter something as I was closing 
the door, I turned again. It sounded very like “ confounded 
slut,” but I was quite willing it should be something else. 

“ Were you speaking, Arthur ]” I asked. 

“ No,” was the answer ; and I shut the door and departed 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


179 


I saw nothing more of him till the following morning at break- 
fast, when he came down a full hour after the usual time. 

“ You’re very late,” was my morning’s salutation. . 

“ You needn’t have waited for me,” was his ; and he walked 
up to the window again. It was just such weather as yesterday. 

Oh, this confounded rain !” he muttered. But after stu- 
diously regarding it for a minute or two, a bright idea seemed 
to strike him, for he suddenly exclaimed, “ But I know what 
I’ll do !” and then returned and took his seat at the table. The 
letter-bag was already there, waiting to be opened. He un- 
locked it and examined the contents, but said nothing about them. 

Is there any thing for me I” I asked. 

“ No.” 

He opened the newspaper and began to read. 

“ You’d better take your coffee,” suggested I ; “it will be 
cold again.” 

“ You may go,” said he, “ if you’ve done. I don’t want you.” 

I rose, and withdrew to the next room, wondering if we were 
to have another such miserable day as yesterday, and wishing 
intensely for an end of these mutually inflicted torments. 
Shortly after, I heard him ring the bell and give some orders 
about his wardrobe that sounded as if he meditated a long jour- 
ney. He then sent for the coachman, and I heard something 
about the carriage and the horses, and London, and seven 
o’clock to-moiTOw morning, that startled and disturbed me not 
a little. 

“ I must not let him go to London, whatever comes of it,” 
said I to myself : “ he will run into all kinds of mischief, and I 
shall be the cause of it. But the question is. How am I to alter 
his purpose 1 Well, I will wait awhile, and see if he men- 
tions it.” ‘ 

I waited most anxiously^ from hour to hour, but not a word 
was spoken, on that or any other subject, to me. He whistled, 
and talked to his dogs, and wandered from room to room, much 
the same as on the previous day. At last I began to think I 
must introduce the subject myself, and was pondering how to 
bring it about, when John unwittingly came to my relief with 
the following message from the coachman : — 

“ Please, sir. Bichard says one of the horses has got a very 
bad cold, and he thinks, sir, if you could make it convenient to 
go the day after to-morrow, instead of to-morrow, he could 
physic it to-day so as — ” 


180 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ Confound his impudence !” interjected the master. 

“ Please, sir, he says it would be a deal better if you could,” 
persisted John, “ for he hopes there’ll be a change in the weather 
shortly, and he says it’s not likely, when a horse is so bad with 
a cold, and physicked and all — ” 

“ Devil take the horse!” cried the gentleman. “Well, tell 
him I’ll think about it,” he added, after a moment’s reflection. 
He cast a searching glance at me, as the servant withdrew, ex- 
pecting to see some token of deep astonishment and alarm ; 
but, being previously prepared, I preserved an aspect of stoical 
indifference. His countenance fell, as he met my steady gaze, 
and he turned away in very obvious disappointment, and walked 
up to the fire-place, where he stood in an attitude of undisguised 
dejection, leaning against the chimney-piece, with his forehead 
sunk upon his arm. 

“ Where do you want to go, Arthur said I. 

“To London,” replied he, gravely. 

“ What for I asked. 

“ Because I can not be happy here.” 

“ Why not “I” 

“ Because my wife doesn’t love me.” 

“ She would love you with all her heart, if you deserved it.” 

“ What must I do to deserve it I” 

This seemed humble and earnest enough, and I was so much 
affected, between sorrow and joy, that I was obliged to pause 
a few seconds before I could steady my voice to reply. 

“ If she gives you her heart,” said I, “ you must take it 
thankfully, and use it well, and not pull it in pieces, and laugh 
in her face, because she can not snatch it away.” 

He now turned round and stood facing me, with his back to 
the fire. 

“ Come then, Helen, are you going to be a good girl f ’ said 
he. 

This sounded rather too an-ogant, and the smile that accom- 
panied it did not please me. I therefore hesitated to reply. 
Perhaps my former answer had implied too much: he had 
heard my voice falter, and might have seen me brush away a 
tear. 

“Are you going to forgive me, Helen?” he resumed, more 
humbly. 

“ Are you penitent ?” I replied, stepping up to him, and 
smiling in his face. 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


181 


“ Heart-broken !” he answered, with a rueful countenance — 
yet with a merry smile just lurking within his eyes and about the 
corners of his mouth; but this could not repulse me, and 1 flew 
into his arms. He fervently embraced me, and though I shed 
a torrent of tears, 1 think I never was happier in my life than at 
that moment. 

“ Then you won’t go to London, Arthur 1” I said, when the 
first transport of tears and kisses had subsided. 

“ No, love — unless you will go with me.” 

“ I will gladly,” I answered, “ if you think the change will 
amuse you, and if you will put off the journey till next week.” 

He readily consented, but said there was no need of much 
preparation, as he should not be for staying long, for he did not 
wish me to be Londonized, and to lose my country freshness 
and originality by too much intercourse with the ladies of the 
world. I thought this folly ; but I did not wish to contradict 
him now : I merely said that I was of very domestic habits, as 
he well knew, and had no particular wish to mingle with the 
world. 

So we are to go to London on Monday, the day after to- 
morrow. It is now four days since the termination of our quar- 
rel, and I’m sure it has done us both good ; it has made me 
like Arthur a great deal better, and made him behave a great 
deal better to me. He has never once attempted to annoy me 
since, by the most distant allusion to Lady F — , or any of 
those disagreeable reminiscences of his former life. I wish I 
could blot them from my memory, or else get him to regard 
such matters in the same light as I do. Well! it is something, 
however, to have made him see that they are not fit subjects for 
a conjugal jest. He may see farther sometime — I will put no 
limits to my hopes ; and, in spite of my aunt’s forebodings and 
my own unspoken fears, I trust we shall be happy yet. 


% 


CHAPTER XXV. 

FIRST ABSENCE. 

On the eighth of April we went to London ; on the eighth 
of May I returned, in obedience to Arthur’s wish : very much 


182 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


against my own, because I left him behind. If he had come 
with me, I should have been very glad to get home again, for 
he led me such a round of restless dissipation while there, that, 
in that short space of time, I was quite tired out. He seemed 
bent upon displaying me to his friends and acquaintances in 
particular, and the public in general, on every possible occasion, 
and to the greatest possible advantage. It was something to 
feel that he considered me a worthy object of pride ; but I 
paid dear for the gratification : for, in the first place, to please 
him, I had to violate my cherished predilections — my almost 
rooted principles in favor of a plain, dark, sober style of dress ; 
I must sparkle in costly jewels, and deck myself out like a 
painted butterfly, just as I had, long since, determined I would 
never do — and this was no trifling sacrifice. In the second 
place, I was continually straining to satisfy his sanguine ex- 
pectations and do honor to his choice, by my general conduct 
and deportment, and fearing to disappoint him by some awk- 
ward misdemeanor, or some trait of inexperienced ignorance 
about the customs of society, especially when I acted the part 
of hostess, which I was not unfrequently called upon to do. 
And, in the third place, as I intimated before, I was wearied of 
the throng and bustle, the restless hurry and ceaseless change 
of a life so alien to all my previous habits. At last, he suddenly 
discovered that the London air did not agree with me, and 
I was languishing for my country home, and must immediately 
return to Grrassdale. 

I laughingly assured him that the case was not so urgent as 
he appeared to think it, but I was quite willing to go home if 
he was. He replied that he should be obliged to remain a 
week or two longer, as he had business that required his 
presence. 

“ Then I will stay with you,” said I. 

“ But I can’t do with you, Helen,” was his answer ; “ as 
long as you stay, I shall attend to you and neglect my business.’' 

“ But I won’t let you,” I returned : “ now that I know you 
have busiriesss to attend to, I shall insist upon your attendino- to 
it, arid letting me alone^and, to tell you the truth, I shalf be 
glad of a little rest. I can take my rides and walks in the 
park as usual ; and your business can not occupy all your time; 
I shall see you at meal-times and in the evenings, at least, and 
that will be better than being leagues away and never seeing 
vou at all.” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


183 


“ But, my love, I can not let you stay. How can I settle my 
affairs when I know that you are here, neglected — ” 

“ I shall not feel myself neglected ; while you are doing your 
duty, Arthur, I shall never complain of neglect. If you had 
told me before, that you had any thing to do, it would have 
been half done before this ; and now you must make up for 
lost time by redoubled exertions. Tell me what it is; and 
I will be your taskmaster, instead of being a hindrance.” 

“ No, no !” persisted the impracticable creature ; “ you must 
go home, Helen ; I must have the satisfaction of knowing that 
you are safe and well, though far away. Don’t I see that you 
are looking quite rakish % Your bright eyes are faded, and 
that tender, delicate bloom has quite deserted your cheek.” 

“ That is only with too much gayety and fatigue.” 

“ It is not, I tell you ; it is the London air. You are pining 
for the fresh breezes of your country home, and you shall feel 
them, before you are two days older. And remember your 
situation, dearest Helen ; on your health, you know, depends 
the health, if not the life of our future hope.” 

“ Then you really wish to get rid of me ]” 

“ Positively, I do ; and I will take you down myself to Grass- 
dale, and then return. I shall not be absent above a week — or 
fortnight at most.” 

“ But if I must go, I will go alone ; if you must stay, it is 
needless to waste your time in the journey there and back.” 

But he did not like the idea of sending me alone. 

“ Why, what helpless creature do you take me for,” I replied 
“ that you can not trust me to go a hundred miles in our own 
carriage, wdth our own footman and maid to attend me % If you 
come with me I shall assuredly keep you. But tell me, Arthur, 
what is this tiresome business ; and why did you never mention 
it before r’ 

“ It is only a little business with my lawyer,” said he ; and he 
told me something about a piece of property he wanted to sell, 
in order to pay* off a part of the encumbrances on his estate ; 
but either the account was a little confused, or I was rather dull 
of comprehension, for I could not clearly understand how that 
should keep him in town a fortnight after me. Still less can I 
now comprehend how it should keep him a month — for it is 
nearly that time since I left him, and no signs of his return as 
yet. In every letter he promises to be with me in a few days, 
and every time deceives me — or deceives himself His excuses 


.84 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


are vague and insufficient. I can not doubt that he is got 
among his former companions again. Oh, why did I leave him 'i 
I wish — I do intensely wish — he would return ! 

June 29th. — No Arthur yet ; and for many days I have been 
looking and longing in vain for a letter. His letters, when they 
come, are kind — if fair words and endearing epithets can give 
them a claim to the title — but very short, and full of trivial ex- 
cuses and promises that I can not trust ; and yet how anxiously 
I look forward to them ! how eagerly I open and devour one 
of those little, hastily scribbled returns for the three or four long 
letters, hitherto unanswered, he has had from me ! 

Oh, it is cruel to leave me so long alone ! He knows I have 
no one but Rachel to speak to, for we have no neighbors here, 
except the Hargraves, whose residence I can dimly descry from 
these upper windows, imbosomed among those low, woody hills 
beyond the Dale. I was glad when I learned that Miliceht 
was so near us ; and her company would be a soothing solace 
to me now, but she is still in town with her mother : there is no 
one at the Grove but little Esther and her French governess, for 
Walter is always away. I saw that paragon of manly perfec- 
tions in London : he seemed scarcely to merit the eulogiums of 
his mother and sister, though he certainly appeared more con- 
versable and agreeable than Lord Lowborough, more candid 
and high-minded than Mr. Grimsby, and more polished and gen- 
tlemanly than Mr. Hattersley, Arthur’s only other friend whom 
he judged fit to introduce to me. O Arthur, why won’t you 
come 1 Why won’t you write to me, at least*? You talked 
about my health ; how can you expect me to gather bloom and 
vigor here — pining in solitude and restless anxiety from day to 
day *? It would serve you right to come back and find my good 
looks entirely wasted away. I would beg my uncle and aunt 
or my brother, to come and see me, but I do not like to com- 
plain of my loneliness to them; and, indeed, loneliness is the 
least of my ^sufferings : but what is he doing— -what is it that 
keeps, him away *? It is this ever-recurring question, and the 
horriblfe suggestions it raises, that distract me. 

July 3d . — My last bitter letter has wrung li'om him an answer 
at last, and a rather longer one than usual ; but still, I don’t 
know what to make of it. He playfully abuses me for the gall 
and vinegar of my latest effusion, tells me I can have no con- 
ception of the multitudinous engagements that keep him away, 
but avers that, in spite of th^m all, he will assuredly be with 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


18.5 


me before the close of next week ; though it is impossible for a 
man, so circumstanced as he is, to fix the precise day of his re- 
tuiTi : meantime, he exhorts me to the exercise of patience, 
that first of woman’s virtues,” and desires me to remember the 
saying, “ Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” and comfort 
myself with the assurance that the longer he stays away, the 
better he shall love me when he returns ; and till he does return, 
he begs I will continue to write to him constantly : for, though 
he is sometimes too idle, and often too busy, to answer my let- 
ters as they come, he likes to receive them daily ; and, if I ful- 
fill my threat of punishing his seeming neglect by ceasing to 
write, he shall be so angry that he will do his utmost to forget 
me. He adds this piece of intelligence respecting poor Milicent 
Hargrave : — 

“Your little friend Milicent is likely, before long, to follow 
your example, and take upon her the yoke of matrimony, in 
conjunction with a friend of mine. Hattersley, you know, has 
not yet fulfilled his direful threat of throwing his precious per- 
son away on the first old maid that chose to evince a tenderness 
for him ; but he still preserves a resolute determination to see 
himself a married man before the year is out : ‘ Only,’ said he 
to me, ‘I must have somebody that will let me have my own 
way in every thing — not like your wife, Huntingdon ; she is a 
charming creature, but she looks as if she had a will of her own, 
and could play the vixen upon occasion.’ (I thought, ‘ You’re 
right there, man,’ but I didn’t say so.) ‘ I must have some good, 
quiet soul, that will let me just do what I like, and go where I 
like — keep at home or stay away, without a word of reproach 
or complaint ; for I can’t do with being bothered.’ ‘ Well,’ said 
I, ‘ I know somebody that will suit you to a if you don’t care 
for money, and that’s Hargrave’s sister, Milicent.’ He desired 
to be introduced to her forthwith, for he said he had plenty of 
the needful himself, or should have, when his old governor chose 
to quit the stage.,. So you see, Helen, I have managed pretty 
well, both for your friend and mine.” 

Poor Milicent ! But I can not imagine she will ever be led 
to accept such a suitor — one so repugnant to all her ideas of a 
man to be honored and loved. 

5th. — Alas ! I was mistaken. I have got a long letter from 
her this morning, telling me she is already engaged, and expects 
to be married before the close of the month. 

“ T hardly know what to say about it,” she writes, “ or what 


186 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


to think. To tell you the truth, Helen, I don’t like the thoughts 
of it at all. If I am to be Mr. Hattersley’s wife, I must try to 
love him ; and I do try with all my might ; but I have made 
very little progress yet ; and the worse symptom of the case is, 
that the further he is from me the better I like him ; he frightens 
me with his abrupt manners and strange hectoring ways, and I 
dread the thoughts of marrying him. ‘ Then why have you 
accepted him “I’ you will ask ; and I didn’t know I had accepted 
him; but mamma tells me I have, and he seems to think so too. 
I certainly didn’t mean to do so ; but I did not like to give him 
a flat refusal for fear mamma should be grieved and angry (for 
I knew she wished me to marry him), and I wanted to talk to 
her first about it, so I gave him what 1 thought was an evasive, 
half negative answer; but she says it was as good as an accept- 
ance, and he would think me very capricious if I were to 
attempt to draw back — and indeed, I was so confused and 
fiightened at the moment, I can hardly tell what I said. And 
next time I saw him, he accosted me in all confidence as his 
affianced bride, find immediately began to settle matters with 
mamma. I had not courage to contradict them then, and how 
can I do it now % I can not — they would think me mad. Be- 
sides, mamma is so delighted with the idea of the match ; she 
thinks she has managed so well for me ; and I can not bear to 
disappoint her. I do object sometimes, and tell her what I feel ; 
but you don’t know how she talks. Mr. Hattersley, you know, 
is the son of a rich banker, and as Esther and I have no fortunes, 
and Walter very little, our dear mamma is very anxious to see 
us all well married, that is, united to rich partners — it is not 
my idea of being well married, but she means it all for the best. 
She says when I am safe off her hands it will be such a relief 
to her mind ; and she assures me it will be a good thing for the 
family as well as for me. Even Walter is pleased at the pros- 
pect, and when I confessed my reluctance to him, he said it was 
all childish nonsense. Do you think it nonsense, Helen 'I I 
should not care if I could see any prospect of being able to love 
and admire him, but I can’t. There is nothing about him to 
hang one’s esteem and affection upon : he is so diametrically 
opposite to what I imagined my husband should be. Do write 
to me, and say all you can to encourage me. Don’t attempt to 
dissuade me, for my fate is fixed : preparations for the import- 
ant event are already going on around me; and don’t say a 
word against Mr. Hattersley, for I want to think well of him ; 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


187 


and though I have spoken against him myself, it is for the last 
time : hereafter, I shall never permit myself to utter a word in 
his dispraise, however he may seem to deserve it; and whoever 
ventures to speak slightingly of the man I have promised to love, 
to honor, and obey, must expect my serious displeasure. — 
After all, I think he is quite as good as Mr. Huntingdon, if not 
better; and yet, you love him, and seem to be happy and con- 
tented ; and perhaps I may manage as well. You must tell 
me, if you can, that Mr. Hattersley is better than he seems — 
that he is upright, honorable, and open-hearted — in fact, a per- 
fect diamond in the rough. He may be all this, but I don’t 
know him. I know only the exterior and what I trust is the 
worst part of him.” 

She concludes with “ Good-by, dear Helen, I am waiting 
anxiously for your advice — but mind, you let it be all on the 
right side.” 

Alas ! poor Milicent, what encouragement can I give you % 
or what advice — except that it is better to make a bold stand 
now, though at the expense of disappointing and angering both 
mother and brother, and lover, than to devote your whole life, 
hereafter, to misery and vain regret I 

Saturday, 13th. The week is over, and he is not come. All 
the sweet summer is passing away without one breath of pleas- 
ure to me or benefit to him. And I had all along been looking 
forward to this season with the fond, delusive hope that we 
should enjoy it so sweetly together; and that, with God’s help 
and my exertions, it would be the means of elevating his mind, 
and refining his taste to a due appreciation of the salutary and 
pure delights of nature, and peace, and holy love. But now, 
at evening, when I see the round, red sun sink quietly down 
behind those woody hills, leaving them sleeping in a warm, red, 
golden haze, I only think another lovely day is lost to him and 
me; and at morning, when roused by the flutter and chirp of the 
spari'ows and the gleeful twitter of the swallows — all intent upon 
feeding their young, and full of life and joy in their own little 
frames — I open the window to inhale the balmy, soul-reviving 
air, and look out upon the lovely landscape, laughing in dew 
and sunshine, I too often shame that glorious scene with tears 
of thankless misery, because he can not feel its fi'eshening influ- 
enoe ; and when I wander in the ancient woods, and meet the 
little wild flowers smiling in my path, or sit in the shadow of 
our noble ash-trees by the water side ; with their branches 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


18 ?'] 


gently swaying in the light summer breeze that murmurs 
through their feathery foliage — my ears full of that low music 
mingled with the dreamy hum of insects, my eyes abstractedly 
gazing on the glassy surface of the little lake before me, with 
the trees that crowd about its bank, some gracefully bending to 
kiss its waters, some rearing their stately heads high above, but 
stretching their wide arms over its margin, all faithfully mir- 
rored far, far down its glassy depth — though sometimes the 
images are partially broken by the sport of aquatic insects, and 
sometimes, for a moment, the whole is shivered into trembling 
fragments by a transient breeze that swept the surface too 
roughly, still I have no pleasure; for the greater the happiness 
that nature sets before me, the more I lament that lie is not 
here to taste it : the greater the bliss we might enjoy together, 
the more I feel our present wretchedness apart — (yes, ours ; he 
must be wretched, though he may not know it) — and the more 
my senses are pleased, the more my heart is oppressed ; for he 
keeps it with him confined amid the dust and smoke of London; 
perhaps shut up within the walls of his own abominable club. 

But, most of all, at night, when I enter my lonely chamber, 
and look out upon the summer moon, “ sweet regent of the sky,” 
floating above me in the “ black-blue vault of heaven,” shedding 
a flood of silver radiance over park, and wood and water, so 
pure, so peaceful so divine, and think, Where is he now] what 
is he doing at this moment ] — wholly unconscious of this hea- 
venly scene, perhaps reveling with his boon companions; per- 
haps— God help me, it is too — too much ! ^ 

23d. — Thank heaven, he is come at last ! But how altered ! 
flushed and feverish, listless and languid, his beauty strangely 
diminished, his vigor and vivacity quite departed. I have not 
upbraided him by word or look; I have not even asked him 
what he has been doing. I have not the heart to do it, for 
I think he is ashamed of himself — he must be so, indeed, 
and such inquiries could not fail to be painful to both. My 
forbearance pleases him, touches him even, I am inclined to 
think. He says he is glad to be home again, and God knows 
how glad I am to get him back, even as he is. He lies on the 
sofa nearly all day long ; and I play and sing to him for hours 
together. I write his letters for him, and get him every thing 
he wants ; and sometimes I read to him, and sometimes I talk, 
and sometimes only sit by him and soothe him with silent caress- 
es. I know he does not deserve it ; and I fear I am spoiling 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


189 


him ; but this once I will forgive him, freely and entirely. I 
will shame him into virtue if I can, and I will never let him 
leave me again. 

He is pleased with my attentions — it may be, giateful for 
them. He likes to have me near him ; and though he is peevish 
and testy with his servants and his dogs, he is gentle and kind 
to me. What he would be, if I did not so watchfully anticipate 
his wants, and so carefully avoid, or immediately desist from do- 
ing any thing that has a tendency to iiritate or disturb him, with 
however little reason, I can not tell. How intensely I wish he 
were worthy of all this care ! Last night as I sat beside him, 
with his head in my lap, passing my fingers through his beauti- 
ful curls, this thought made my eyes overflow with sorrowful 
tears, as it often does ; but this time, a tear fell on his face and 
made him look up. He smiled, but not insultingly. 

“ Dear Helen !” he said — “ why do you cry ] you know that 
I love you” (and he pressed my hand to his feverish lips), “ and 
what more could you desire V* 

“ Only, Arthur, that you would love yourself^ as truly and as 
faithfully as you are loved by me.” 

“ That would bo hard indeed,” he replied, tenderly squeezing 
my hand. 

I don’t know whether he fully understood my meaning, but 
ne smiled, thoughtfully and even sadly — a most unusual thing 
with him ; and then he closed his eyes and fell asleep, looking 
as careless and sinless as a child. As I watched that placid 
slumber, my heart swelled fuller than ever, and my tears flowed 
unrestrained. 

August 24 th. — Arthur is himself again, as lusty and reckless, 
as light of heart and head as ever, and as restless and hard to 
amuse as a spoiled child — and almost as full of mischief too, 
especially when wet weather keeps him within doors. I wish 
he had something to do, some useful trade, or profession, or 
employment — any thing to occupy his head or his hands for a 
few hours a day, and give him something besides his own 
pleasure to think about. If he would play the country gentle- 
man, and attend to the farm — but that he knows nothing about, 
and w'on’t give his mind to consider — or if he would take up 
with some literary study, or learn to draw or to play ; as he is 
so fond of music, I often try to persuade him to learn the piano, 
but he is far too idle for such an undertaking. He has no more 
idea of exerting himself to overcome obstacles than he has of 


190 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


restraining his natural appetites ; and these two things are the 
ruin of him. I lay them both to the charge of his harsh yet 
careless father and his madly indulgent mother. If ever I am 
a mother I will zealously strive against this crime of over-indul- 
gence — I can hardly give it a milder name when I think of the 
evils it brings. 

Happily, it will soon be the shooting season, and then, if the 
weather permit, he will find occupation enough in the pursuit 
and destruction of the partridges and pheasants : we have no 
grouse, or he might have been similarly occupied at this moment, 
instead of lying under the acacia tree pulling poor Dash’s ears. 
But he says it is dull work shooting alone ; he must have a friend 
or two to help him. 

“ Let them be tolerably decent then, Arthur,’’ said I. The 
word “friend,” in his mouth, makes me shudder. I know it 
was some of his “friends” that induced him to stay behind me 
in London, and kept him away so long. Indeed, from what he 
has unguardedly told me, or hinted from time to time, I can not 
doubt that he frequently showed them my letters, to let them 
see how fondly his wife watched over his interests and how 
keenly she regretted his absence ; and that they induced him to 
remain week after week, and to plunge into all manner of ex- 
cesses to avoid being laughed at for a wife-ridden fool, and, 
perhaps, to show how far he could venture to go without danger 
of shaking the fond creature’s devoted attachment. It is a 
hateful idea, but I can not believe it is a false one. 

“Well,” replied he, “I thought of Lord Lowborough for 
one ; but there is no possibility of getting him 'without his better 
half, our mutual friend Annabella; so we must ask them both. 
You’re not afraid of her, are you Helen 1” he asked with a 
mischievous twinkle in his eyes. 

“ Of course not,” I answered ; “ why should 1 1 And who 
besides ]” 

“ Hargrave for one — he will be glad to come, though his 
own place is so near, for he has little enough land of his own to 
shoot over, and we can extend our depredations into it, if we 
like; and he is thoroughly respectable, you know, Helen — 
quite a lady’s man : and I think Grimsby for another ; he’s a 
decent, quiet fellow enough. You’ll not object to Grimsby 

“ I hate him ; but, however, if you wish it. I’ll try to endure 
his presence for a while.” 

“ All a prejudice Helen — a mere woman’s antipathy.” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


191 


“ No ; I have solid grounds for my dislike. And is that all V* 
“ Why, yes, I think so. Hattersley will be too busy billing 
and cooing with his bride to have much time to spare for guns 
and dogs, at present,” he replied. 

And that reminds me that I have had several letters from 
Milicent since her marriage, and that she either is or pretends 
to be quite reconciled to her lot. She professes to have discovered 
numberless virtues and perfections in her husband, some of 
which, I fear, less partial eyes would fail to distinguish, though 
they sought them carefully, with tears ; and now that she is 
accustomed to his loud voice and abrupt, and uncourteous man- 
ners, she affirms she finds no difficulty in loving him as a wife 
should do, and begs I will burn that letter wherein she spoke 
so unadvisedly against him. So that I trust she may yet be 
happy ; but if she is, it will be entirely the reward of her own 
goodness of heart ; for had she chosen to consider herself the 
victim of fate, or of her mother’s worldly wisdom, she might 
have been thoroughly miserable ; and if, for duty’s sake, she 
had not made every effort to love her husband, she would doubt- 
less have hated him to the end of her days. 

» - 


CHAPTER XXVT 

THE GUESTS. 

Sept. 23d. — Our guests arrived about three weeks ago. Lord 
and Lady Lowborough have now been married above eight 
months ; and I wilfdo the lady the credit to say that her husband 
is quite an altered man ; his looks, his spirits, and his temper are 
all perceptibly changed for the better, since I last saw him. 
But there is room for improvement still. He is not always 
cheerful nor always contented, and she often complains of his 
ill-humor, which, however, of all persons, she ought to be the 
last to accuse" him of, as he never displays it against her, except 
for such conduct as would provoke a saint. He adores her still, 
and would go to the world’s end to please her. She knows her 
power, and she uses it too ; but well knowing that to wheedle 
and coax is safer than to command, she judiciously tempers her 
despotism with flattery and blandishments enough to make him 
deem himself a favored and a happy man. And yet, at times. 


192 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


a somber shadow overclouds his brow even in her presence, but 
evidently the result of despondency rather than of ill- humor, 
and generally occasioned by some display of her ill-regulated 
temper or misguided mind — some wanton trampling upon his 
most cherished opinions — some reckless disregard of principle 
that makes him bitterly regret that she is not as good as she is 
charming and beloved. I pity him from my heart, for I know 
the misery of such regrets. 

But she has another way of tormenting him, in which T am 
a fellow sufferer — or might be if I chose to regard myself as 
such : — This is by openly but not too glaringly coquetting with 
Mr. Huntingdon, who is quite willing to be her partner in the 
game ; but I don’t care for it, because with him, I know there 
is nothing but personal vanity and a mischievous desire to excite 
my jealousy, and perhaps to torment his friend ; and she, no 
doubt, is actuated by much the same motives ; only there is more 
of malice and less of playfulness in her manoeuvres. It is obvi- 
ously, therefore, my interest to disappoint them both, as far as I 
am concerned, by preserving a cheerful, undisturbed serenity 
throughout; and accordingly I endeavor to show the fullest 
confidence in my husband and the greatest indifference to 
the arts of my attractive guest. I have never reproached the 
former but once, and that was for laughing at Lord Lowbor- 
ough’s depressed and anxious countenance one evening, when 
they had both been particularly provoking ; and then, indeed, 
I said a good deal on the subject, and rebuked him sternly 
enough ; but he only laughed, and said — 

“ You can feel for him, Helen — can’t you V’ 

“ I can feel for any one that is unjustly treated,” I replied, 
“and I can feel for those that injure them too.” 

“ Why, Helen, you are as jealous as he is !” cried he, laugh- 
ing still more ; and I found it impossible to coiivince him of his 
mistake. So from that time I have carefully refrained from 
any notice of the subject whatever, and left Lord Lowborough 
to take care of himself. He either has not the sense or the 
power to follow my example, though he does try to conceal his 
uneasiness as well as he can; but still, it will appear in his 
face, and his ill-humor will peep out at intervals, though not in 
the expression of open resentment — they never go far enough 
for that. But I confess I do feel jealous at times — most pain- 
fully, bitterly so — when she sings and plays to him, and he hangs 
over the instrument and dwells upon her voice with no affected 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


193 


interest ; for then, I know he is really delighted, and I have no 
power to awaken similar fervor. I can amuse and please him 
with my simple songs, but not delight him thus. 

I might retaliate if I chose, for Mr. Hargrave is disposed to be 
very polite and attentive to me as his hostess — especially so when 
Arthur is the most neglectful, whether in mistaken compassion 
for me, or ambitious to show off his own good breeding by com- 
parison with his fiieiid’s remissness, I cannot tell; but in either 
case his civilities are highly distasteful to me. If Arthur is a 
little careless, of course it is unpleasant to have the fault exag- 
gerated by contrast ; and to be pitied as a neglected wife when 
I am not such, is an insult I can ill endure. But for hospitality’s 
sake, I endeavor to suppress my impulse of scarcely reasonable 
resentment, and behave with decent civility to our guest, who, 
to give him his due, is by no means a disagreeable companion : 
he has good conversational powers and considerable informa- 
tion and taste, and talks about things that Arthur never could 
be brought to discuss, or to feel any interest in. But Arthur 
dislikes me to talk to him, and is visibly annoyed by his com- 
monest acts of politeness ; not that my husband has any unwor- 
thy suspicions of me, or of his friend either, as I believe ; but 
he dislikes me to have any pleasure but in himself, any shadow 
of homage or kindness but such as he chooses to vouchsafe. 
He knows that he is my sun ; but when he chooses to withhold 
his light, he would have my sky to be all darkness : he can not 
bear that I should have a moon to mitigate the deprivation. 
This is unjust ; and I am sometimes tempted to tease him ac- 
cordingly ; but I won’t yield to the temptation ; if he should 
carry his trifling with my feelings too far, 1 shall find some other 
means of checking him. 

28th. — Yesterday we all went to the Grove, Mr. Hargrave’s 
much neglected home. His mother frequently asks us over, 
that she may have the pleasure of her dear Walter’s company ; 
and this time she had invited us to a dinner party, and got to- 
gether as many of the country gentry as were within reach to 
meet us. The entertainment was very well got up; but I could 
not help thinking about the cost of it all the time. I don’t 
like Mrs. Hargrave ; she is a hard, pretensions, worldly-minded 
woman. She has money enough to live very comfortably, if she 
only knew how to use it judiciously, and had taught her son to 
do the same ; but she is ever straining to keep up appearances, 
with that despicable pride that shuns the semblance of poverty 


194 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


as of a shameful crime. She grinds her dependents, pinches 
her servants, and deprives even her daughters and herself of the 
real comforts of life, because she will not consent to yield' the 
palm in outward show to those who have three times her wealth, 
and, above all, because she is determined her cherished son 
shall be enabled to “ hold up his head with the highest gentle- 
man in the land.” This same son, I imagine, is a man of ex- 
pensive habits — no reflkless spendthrift, and no abandoned sen- 
sualist, but one who likes to have “ every thing handsome about 
him,” and to go to a certain length in youthful indulgences — not 
so much to gi'atify his own tastes as to maintain his reputation 
as a man of fashion in the world, and a respectable fellow among 
his own lawless companions ; while he is too selfish to consider 
how many comforts might be obtained for his fond mother and 
sisters with the money he thus wastes upon himself : as long as 
they can contrive to make a respectable appearance once a year 
when they come to town, he gives himself little concern about 
their private stintings and struggles at home. This is a harsh 
judgment to form of “ dear, noble-minded, generous-hearted 
Walter;” but I fear it is too just. . 

Mrs. Hargrave’s anxiety to make good matches for her 
daughters is partly the cause and partly the result of these 
errors : by making a figure in the world, and showing them off 
to advantage, she hopes to obtain better chances for them ; and 
by thus living beyond her legitimate means, and lavishing so 
much on their brother, she renders them portionless, and makes 
them burdens on her hands. Poor Milicent, I fear, has already 
fallen a sacrifice to the manceuvrings of this mistaken mother, 
who congratulates herself on having so satisfactorily discharged 
her maternal duty, and hopes to do as well for Esther. But 
Esther is a child as yet — a little, merry romp of fourteen : as 
honest-hearted, and as guileless and simple as her sister, but 
with a fearless spirit of her own, that, I fancy, her mother will 
find some difficulty in bending to her purposes. 


CHAPTER XXVIL 

A MISDEMEANOR. 


October 9th. — While the gentlemen are ranging the woods, 
and Lady Lowborough is busy writing her letters, I will re 
turn to my chronicle, for the purpose of recording sayings and 
doings, the last of the kind, I hope, I shall ever have cause to 
describe. 

It was on the night of the 4th, a little after tea, that Annabella 
had been singing and playing, with Arthur, as usual, at her 
side : she had ended her song, but still she sat at the instru- 
ment, and he stood leaning on the back of her chair, conversing 
in scarcely audible tones, with his face in very close proximity 
with hers. I looked at Lord Lowborough. He was at the 
other end of the room, talking with Messrs. Hargrave and 
Grimsby : but I saw him dart toward his lady and his host a 
quick, impatient glance, expressive of intense disquietude, at 
which Grimsby smiled. .Detenuined to interrupt the tete-^- 
,tete, I rose, and selecting a piece of music from the music-stand, 
Stepped up to the piano, intending to ask the lady to play it ; 
fbut, I stood transfixed and speechless, on seeing her seated 
there, listening, with what seemed an exultant smile on her 
flushed face, to his soft murmurings, with her hand quietly sur- 
rendered to his clasp. The blood rushed, first to my heart and 
then to my head — for there was more than this : almost at the 
moment of my approach, he cast a hurried glance over his 
shoulder toward the other occupants of the room, and then ar- 
dently pressed the unresisting hand to his lips. On raising his 
eyes he beheld me, and dropped them again, confounded and 
dismayed. She saw me too, and confronted me with a look of 
hard defiance. I laid the music on the piano, and retired. I 
felt ill, but I did not leave the room. Happily, it was getting 
late, and could not be long before the company dispersed. I 
went to the fire, and leaned ray head against the chimney- 
piece. In a minute or two, some one asked me if I felt unwell. 
I did not answer — indeed, at the time, I knew not what was 
said — but I mechanically looked up, and saw Mr. Hargrave 
standing beside me on the rug. 

“ Shall I get you a glass of wine V* said he. 


196 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ No, thank you,” I replied, and turning from him, I looked 
round. Lady Lowborough was beside her husband, bending 
over him as he sat, with her hand on his shoulder, softly talking 
and smiling in his face ; and Arthur was at the table, turning 
over a book of engravings. I seated myself in the nearest chair, 
and Mr. Hargrave, finding his^ services were not desired, ju- 
diciously withdrew. Shortly after, the company broke up, and 
as the guests were reChing to their rooms, Arthur approached 
me, smiling with the utmost assurance. 

“ Are you very angiy, Helen 1” murmured he. 

“ This is no jest, Arthur,” said I, seriously, but as calmly as 
I could — “ unless you think it a jest to lose my affection for- 
ever.” 

“ What ! so bitter 1” he exclaimed, laughingly clasping my 
hand between both his ; but I snatched it away in indignation 
— almost in disgust, for he was obviously affected with wine. 

“ Then I must go down on my knees,” said he ; and kneeling 
before me, with clasped hands uplifted in mock humiliation, 
he continued imploringly — “Forgive me, Helen! dear Helen, 
forgive me, and Fll never do it again 1” and burying his face in 
his handkerchief, he affected to sob aloud. 

Leaving him thus employed, I took my candle, and slipping 
quietly from the room, hastened up-stairs as fast as 1 could. 
But he soon discovered that I had left him, and rushing up after 
me, caught me in his arms, just as I had entered the chamber, 
and was about to shut the door in his face. 

“ No, no, by heaven, you shan’t escape me so 1” he cried. 
Then, alarmed at my agitation, he begged me not to put myself 
in such a passion, telling me I was white in the face, and should 
kill myself if I did so. 

Let me go then,” I murmured ; and immediately he released 
me — and it was well he did, for I was really in a passion. I 
sank into the easy-chair, and endeavored to compose myself, for 
I wanted to speak to him calmly. He stood beside me, but did 
not venture to touch me or to speak, for a few seconds ; then 
approaching a little nearer, he dropped on one knee — not in 
mock humility, but to bring himself nearer my level, and leaning 
his hand on the arm of the chair, he began in a low voice — 

“ It is all nonsense, Helen — a jest, a mere nothing — not 
worth a thought. Will you never learn I” he continued more 
boldly, “ that you have nothing to fear from me 1 that I love you 
wholly and entirely? or if,” he added with a lurking smile, “1 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 




ever give a thought to another, you may well spare it, for those 
fancies are here and gone like a flash of lightning, while my 
love for you bums on steadily and forever, like the sun. You 
little exorbitant tyrant, will not tJiat — ” 

“ Be quiet a moment, will you, Arthur,” said I, “ and listen 
to me ; and don’t think I’m in a jealous fury : I am perfectly 
calm. Feel my hand.” And I gravely extended it toward 
him — but closed it upon his with an energy that seemed to dis- 
prove the assertion, and made him smile. “You needn’t smile, 
sir,” said I, still tightening my grasp, and looking steadfastly on 
him till he almost quailed before me. “You may think it all 
very fine, Mr. Huntingdon, to amuse yourself with rousing my 
jealousy ; but take care you don’t rouse my hate instead. And 
when you have once extinguished my love, you will find it no 
easy matter to kindle it again.” 

“ Well, Helen, I won’t repeat the offense. But I meant 
nothing by it, I assure you. I had taken too much wine, and 
I was scarcely myself, at the time.” 

“ You often take too much ; — and that is another practice I 
detest.” He looked up astonished at my warmth. “Yes,” I con- 
tinued, “ I never mentioned it before, because I was ashamed 
to do so ; but now I’ll tell you that it distresses me, and may 
disgust me, if you go on and suffer the habit to gi’ow upon you, 
as it will, if you don’t check it in time. But the whole system 
of your conduct to Lady Lowborough, is not referrible to wine; 
and this night you knew perfectly well what you were doing.” 

“ Well, I’m sorry for it,” replied he, with more of sulkiness 
than contrition : “ what more would you have 1” 

“ You are sorry that I saw you, no doubt,” I answered coldly. 

“ If you had not seen me,” he muttered, fixing his eyes on 
the carpet, “ it would have done no harm.” 

My heart felt ready to burst ; but I resolutely swallowed 
back my emotion, and answered calmly, “ You think not 1” 

“No,” replied he, boldly. “After all, what have I donel 
It’s nothing — except as you choose to make it a subject of ac- 
cusation and distress.” 

“ What would Lord Lowborough, your friend^ think, if he 
knew all h or what would you yourself think, if he or any other 
had acted the same part to me, throughout, as you have to 
Annabella 

“ I would blow his brains out.” 

“Well then, Arthur, how can you call it nothing — an offense 


198 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


for which you would think yourself justified in blowing another 
man’s brains out % Is it nothing to trifle with your friend’s 
feelings and mine — to endeavor to steal a woman’s affections 
from her husband — what he values more than his gold, and 
therefore what it is more dishonest to take h Are the marriage 
vows a jest; and is it nothing to make it your sport to break 
them, and to tempt another to do the same % Can I love a 
man that does such things, and coolly maintains it is nothing.” 

“ You are breaking your mamage vows yourself,” said he, 
indignantly rising and pacing to and fro. “ You promised to 
honor and obey me, and now you attempt to hector over me, 
and threaten and accuse me and call me worse than a highway- 
man. If it were mot for your situation, Helen, I would not 
submit to it so tamely. I won’t be dictated to by a woman, 
though she be my wife.” 

“ What will you do then ? Will you go on till I hate you ; 
and then accuse me of breaking my vows 1” 

He was silent a moment, and then replied — 

“ You will never hate me.” Returning and resuming his for- 
mer position at my feet, he repeated more vehemently — “ You 
can not hate me, as long as I love you.” 

“ But how can I believe that you love me, if you continue to 
act in this way ? Just imagine yourself in my place : would 
you think I loved you, if I did so ] Would you believe my pro- 
testations, and honor and trust me under such circumstances 

“ The cases are different,” he replied. “ It is a woman’s 
nature to be constant — to love one and one only, blindly, ten- 
derly, and forever — bless them, dear creatures ! and you above 
them all. But you must have some commiseration for us, 
Helen ; you must give us a little more license, for, as Shake- 
speare has it — ^ ^ 

‘ However we do praise ourselves, 

Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, 

More^ longing, wavering, sooner lost and won 
Than* women’s are.’” 

“ Ho you mean by that, that your fancies are lost to me, and 
won by Lady Lowborough T’ 

“ No ; Heaven is my witness that I think her mere dust and 
ashes in comparison with you — and shall continue to think so, 
unless you drive me from you by too much severity. She is a 
daughter of earth ; you are an angel of heaven ; only be not 


o 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 199 


too austere in your divinity, and remember that I am a poor, 
fallible mortal. Come now, Helen ; won’t you forgive me 
he said, gently taking my hand, and looking up with an inno- 
cent smile. 

“ If I do, you will repeat the offense.” 

“ I swear by — ” 

” Don’t swear ; I’ll believe your word as well as your oath. 
I wish I could have confidence in either.” 

“ Try me then, Helen : only trust and pardon me this once, 
and you shall see ! Come, I am in hell’s torments till you 
speak the word.” 

I did not speak it, but I put my hand on his shoulder and 
kissed his foi'ehead, and then burst into tears. He embraced 
me tenderly ; and we have been good friends ever since. He 
has been decently temperate at table, and well conducted to- 
ward Lady Lowborough. The first day, he held himself aloof 
from her, as far as he could without any flagrant breach of 
hospitality : since then he has been friendly and civil but noth- 
ing more — in my presence, at least — nor, I think, at any other 
time ; for she seems haughty and displeased, and Lord Low- 
borough is manifestly more cheerful, and more cordial toward 
His host than before. But I shall be glad when they are gone, 
for I have so little love for Annabella that it is quite a task to 
be civil to her, and as she is the only woman here besides my- 
self, we are necessarily thrown so much together. Next time 
Mrs. Hargrave calls, I shall hail her advent as quite a relief. 
I have a good mind to ask Arthur’s leave to invite the old lady 
to stay with us till our guests depart. I think I will. She will 
take it as a kind attention, and, though I have little relish for 
her society, she will be truly welcome as a third to stand be- 
tween Lady Lowborough and me. 

The first time the latter and I were alone together, after that 
unhappy evening, was an hour or two after breakfast on the fol- 
lowing day, when the gentlemen were gone out after the usual 
, time spent in the writing of letters, the reading of newspapers, 
and desultory conversation. We sat silent for two or three 
minutes. She was busy with her work, and I was running over 
the columns of a paper from which I had extracted all the pith 
some twenty minutes before. It was a moment of painful em- 
barrassment to me, and I thought it must be infinitely more so 
to her; but it seems I was mistaken. She was the first to speak : 
and, smiling with the coolest assurance, she began — 


200 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ Your husband was merry last night, Helen; is he often so 

My blood boiled in my face ; but it was better she should 
seem to attribute his conduct to this than to any thing else. 

No,” replied 1, “ and never will be so again, I trust.” 

“ You gave him a curtain lecture, did you ]” 

“No; but I told him I disliked such conduct, and he promised 
me not to repeat it.” 

“ I thought he looked rather subdued this morning,” she con- 
tinued ; “ and you, Helen ; you’ve been weeping, 1 see — that’s 
our grand resource, you know — but doesn’t it make your eyes 
smart 1 and do you always find it to answer 1” 

“ I never cry for effect ; nor can I conceive how any one can.” 

“ Well, I don’t know — T never had occasion to ti-y it ; but 1 
think if Lowborough were to commit such improprieties, I’d 
make him cry. I don’t wonder at your being angi*y, for I’m 
sure I’d give my husband a lesson he would not soon forget for 
a lighter offense than that. But then he never will do any thing 
of the kind ; for I keep him in too good order for that.” 

“ Are you sure you don’t arrogate too much of the credit to 
yourself] Lord Lowborough was quite as remarkable for his 
abstemiousness for some time before you married him, as he is 
now, I have heard.” • 

“ Oh, about the wine, you mean ! yes, he’s safe enough for that. 
And as to looking askance to another woman — he’s safe enough 
for that, too, while I live, for he worships the very ground I tread 
on.” 

“ Indeed ! and are you sure you deserve it ]” 

“ Why, as to that, I can’t say : you know we’re all fallible 
creatures, Helen ; we none of us deserve to be worshiped. But 
are you sure your darling Huntingdon deserves all the love you 
give to him 

I knew not what to answer to this. I was iDiirning with an- 
ger ; but I suppressed all outward manifestations of it, and only 
bit my lip and pretended to arrange my work. 

“ At any rate,” resumed she, pursuing her advantage, “ you 
can console yourself with the assurance that you are worthy of 
all the love he gives to you.” 

“You flatter me,” said I; “but, at least, I can try to be 
worthy of it.” And then I turned the conversation. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

PARENTAL FEELINGS. 

December 25th. — Last Christmas I was a bride, with a heart 
overflowing with present bliss, and full of ardent hopes for the 
future, though not unraingled with foreboding fears. Now I am 
a wife : my bliss is sobered, but not destroyed; -my hopes di- 
minished, but not departed ; my fears increased, but not yet 
thoroughly confirmed ; and, thank Heaven, I am a mother, too. 
God has sent me a soul to educate for heaven, and given me a 
new and calmer bliss, and stronger hopes to comfort me. But 
where hope rises, fear must lurk behind . and when I clasp my 
little darling to my breast, or hang over his slumbers with un- 
utterable delight, and a world of hope within my heart, one of 
two thoughts is ever at hand to check my swelling bliss. The 
one — He may be taken from me ; the other — He may live to 
curse his own existence. In the first, I have this consolation : 
that the bud, though plucked, would not be withered, only 
transplanted to a fitter soil to ripen and blow beneath a brighter 
sun ; and though I might not cherish and watch my child’s un- 
folding intellect, he would be snatched away from all the suffer- 
ing and sins of earth ; and my understanding tells me this would 
be no great evil ; but my heart shrinks from the contemplation 
of such a possibility, and whispers I could not bear to see him 
die, and relinquish to the cold and cruel gi’ave this cherished 
form, now warm with tender life, flesh of my flesh and shrine 
of that pure spark which it should be my life’s sweet labor to 
keep unsullied from the world ; and ardently implores that 
heaven would spare him still, to be my comfort and my joy, and 
me to be his shield, instructor, friend — to guide him along the 
perilous path of youth, and train him to be God’s servant while 
on earth, a blessed and honored saint in heaven. But in the 
other case, if he should live to disappoint my hopes, and frus- 
trate all my efforts — to be a slave of sin, the victim of vice and 
misery, a curse to others and himself — Eternal Father, if Thou 
beholdest such a life before him, tear him from me now in spite 
of all my anguish, and take him from my bosom to thine own, 
while he is yet a guileless, unpolluted lamb ! 

My little Arthur ! there you lie in sweet, unconscious slum- 


202 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


ber, the tiny epitome of your father, but stainless yet as that 
pure snow, new fallen from heaven. God shield thee from his 
erroi'S ! How will I watch and toil to guard thee from them ! 
He wakes ; his tiny arms are stretched toward me ; his eyes 
unclose ; they meet my gaze, but will not answer it. Little 
angel ! you do not know me ; you can not think of me or love 
me yet ; and yet how fervently my heart is knit to yours ; how 
grateful I am for all the joy you give me ! Would that your 
father could share it with me — that he could feel my love, my 
hope, and take an equal part in my resolves and projects for the 
future — nay, if he could but sympathize in half my views, and 
share one half my feelings, it would be indeed a blessing to both 
himself and me : it would elevate and purify his mind, and bind 
him closer to his home and me. 

Perhaps, he will feel awakening interest and affection for his 
child as it grows older. At present, he is pleased with the 
acquisition, and hopes it will become a fine boy and a worthy 
heir; and that is nearly all I can say. At first, it was a thing to 
wonder and laugh at, not to touch ; now, it is an object almost 
of indifference, except when his impatience is roused by its 
“utter helplessness ” and “ imperturbable stupidity” (as he calls 
it), or my too close attention to its wants. He frequently comes 
and sits beside me while I am busied with my maternal cares. 
I hoped at first it was for the pleasure of contemplating our 
priceless treasure ; but I soon found it was only to enjoy my 
company, or escape the pains of solitude. He is kindly wel 
come, of course, but the best compliment to a mother is to ap- 
preciate her little one. He shocked me very much on one 
occasion : it was about a fortnight after the birth of our son, and 
he 'was with me in the nursery. We had neither of us spoken 
for some time : I was lost in the contemplation of my nursling, 
and I thought he was similarly occupied — as far, at least, as I 
thought about him at all. But suddenly he startled me from my 
reverie by impatiently exclaiming — 

“ Helen, I shall positively hate that little wretch, if you wor- 
ship it so madly ! You are absolutely infatuated about it.” 

I looked up in astonishment, to see if he could be in earnest. 

“You have not a thought to spare for any thing else,” he con- 
tinued, in the same strain : “ I may go or come, be present or 
absent, cheerful or sad ; it’s all the same to you. As long as 
you have that ugly little creature to doat upon, you care not a 
farthing what becomes of me.” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


203 


“ It is false, Arthur ; when you enter the room, it always 
doubles my happiness ; when you are near me, the sense of 
your presence delights me, though I don’t look at you ; and 
when I think about our child, I please myself with the idea that 
you share my thoughts and feelings, though I don’t speak them.” 

“ How the devil can I waste my thoughts and feelings on a 
little worthless idiot like that V* 

“ It is your own son, Arthur ; or, if that consideration has no 
weight with you, it is mine ; and you ought to respect my 
feelings.” 

“ Well, don’t be cross ; it was only a slip of the tongue,” 
pleaded he. “ The little fellow is well enough, only I can’t 
worship him as you do.” 

“ You shall nurse him for me as a punishment,” said I, nsing 
to put my baby in its father’s arms. 

“ No, don’t, Helen — don’t !” cried he, in real disquietude. 

“ I will ; you’ll love him better when you feel the little crea 
ture in your arms.” 

I deposited the precious burden in his hands, and retreated to 
the other side of the room, laughing at the ludicrous half em- 
barrassed air with which he sat, holding it at arms’ length, and 
looking upon it as if it were some curious being of quite a dif- 
ferent species to himself. 

“ Come, take it, Helen ; take it,” he cried at length. “ I shall 
drop it, if you don’t.” 

Compassionating his distress — or, rather, the child’s unsafe 
position, I relieved him of the charge. 

' “ Kiss it, Arthur ; do, you’ve never kissed it yet !” said I, 

kneeling and presenting it before him. 

“ I would rather kiss its mother,” replied he, embracing me. 
“ There, now ; won’t that do as well I” 

I resumed my seat in the easy chair, and gave my little one 
a shower of gentle kisses, to make up for its other parent’s re- 
fusal. 

“ There goes !” cried the jealous father. “ That’s more, in 
one minute, lavished on that little senseless, thankless oyster, 
than you have given me these three weeks past.” 

“ Come here, then, you insatiable monopolist, and you shall 
have as many as you like, incorrigible and undeseiwing as you 
are. There, now ; won’t that suffice 'I I have a good mind 
never to give you another till you have learned to love my baby 
as a father should.” 


204 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ I like the little devil — ” 

“Arthur!” ^ 

“ Well, the little angel — well enough,” and he pinched its 
delicate little nose to prove his affection, “ only I can't love it — 
what is there to love ? It can’t love me — or you either ; it can’t 
understand a single word you say to it, or feel one spark of grat- 
itude for all your kindness. Wait till it can show some little 
affection for me, and then I’ll see about loving it. At present, it 
is nothing more than a little selfish, senseless, sensualist, and if 
you see any thing adorable in it, it’s all very well. I only won- 
der how you can.” 

“ If you were less selfish yourself, Arthur, you would not re- 
gard it in that light.” 

“ Possibly not, love ; but so it is : there’s no help for it.” 


\ CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE NEIGHBOR. 

December 25th, 1823. — Another year is gone. My little 
Arthur lives and thrives. He is healthy but not robust, full of 
gentle playfulness and vivacity, already affectionate, and suscep- 
tible of passions and emotions it will be long ere he can find 
words to express. • He has won his father’s heart at last ; and 
now my constant terror is, least he should be ruined by that 
father’s thoughtless indulgence. But I must beware of my own 
weakness too, for I never knew till now how strong are a 
parent’s temptations to spoil an only child. ^ ^ 

I have need of consolation in my son, for (to this silent paper 
I may confess it) I have but little in my husband. I love him 
still ; and he loves me in his own way — but oh, how different 
from the love I could have given, and once had hoped to 
receive I How little real sympathy there exists between us ; 
how many of my thoughts and feelings are gloomily cloistered 
within my own mind ; how much of my higher and better self 
is indeed unmarried — doomed either to harden and sour in the 
sunless shade of solitude, or to quite degenerate and fall away 
for lack of nutriment in this unwholesome soil I But, I repeat, 
I have no right to complain : only let me state the truth — some 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


205 


of the truth at least — and see hereafter, if any darker truths will 
blot these pages. We have now been full two years united ; 
the “ romance” of our attachment must be worn away. Surely 
I have now got down to the lowest gradation in Arthur’s affec 
tion, and discovered all the evils of his nature : if there be any 
further change, it must be for the better, as we become still 
more accustomed to each other : surely we shall find no lower 
depth than this. And if so, I can bear it well — as well, at least, 
as I have borne it hitherto. 

Arthur is not what is commonly called a had man : he has 
many good qualities ; but he is a man without self-restraint or 
lofty aspirations — a lover of pleasure, given up to animal enjoy- 
ments : he is not a bad husband, but his notions of matrimonial 
duties and comforts are not my notions. Judging from appear- 
ances, his idea of a wife, is a thing to love one devotedly, and to 
stay at home — to wait upon her husband, and amuse him and 
minister to his comfort in every possible way, while he chooses 
to stay with her ; and, when he is absent, to attend to his 
interests, domestic or otherwise, and patiently wait his return ; 
no matter how he may be occupied in the mean time. 

Early in the spring he announced his intention of going to 
London : his affairs there demanded his attendance, he said, 
and he could refuse it no longer. He expressed his regret at 
having to leave me, but hoped I would amuse myself with the 
baby till he returned. 

“ But why leave me 1” I said. “ I can go with you : I can 
be ready at any time.” 

“ You would not take that child to town 1” 

“ Yes — why not 

The thing was absurd : the air of the town would be certain 
to disagi'ee with him, and with me as a nurse ; the late hours 
and London habits would not suit me under such circumstances; 
and altogether he assured me that it would be excessively 
troublesome, injurious, and unsafe. I overruled his objections 
as well as I could, for I trembled at the thoughts of his going 
alone, and would sacrifice almost any thing for myself, much 
even for my child, to prevent it ; but at length he told me, 
plainly, and somewhat testily, that he could not do with me : 
he was worn out with the baby’s restless nights, and must have 
some repose. I proposed separate apartments ; but it would 
not do. 

“ The truth is, Arthur,” I said, at last, “ you are weary of 


206 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


my company, and determined not to have me with you. You 
might as well have said so at once.” 

He denied it ; but I immediately left the room, and flew to 
the nursery to hide my feelings, if I could not soothe them, 
there. 

I was too much hurt to express any further dissatisfaction 
with his plans, or at all to refer to the subject again, except for 
the necessary arrangements concerning his departure and the 
conduct of his affairs during his absence — till the day before he 
went, when I earnestly exhorted him to take care of himself 
and keep out of the way of temptation. He laughed at my 
anxiety, but assured me there was no cause for it, and promised 
to attend to my advice. 

“I suppose it is no use asking you to fix a day for youi 
return'?” said I. 

“ Why, no : I hardly can, under the circumstances ; but be 
assured, love, I shall not be long away.” 

“I don’t wish to keep you a prisoner at home,” I replied: “I 
should not grumble at you staying whole months away — if you 
can be happy so long without me, provide^, I knew you were 
safe ; but I don’t like the idea of your being there, among your 
friends, as you call them.” 

“ Pooh, pooh, you silly girl ! Do you think I can’t take care 
of myself?” 

“You didn’t last time. But this time, Arthur,” I added, 
earnestly, “show me that you can, and teach me that I need not 
fear to trust you !” 

He promised fair, but in such a manner as we seek to soothe 
a child. And did he keep his promise “? No — and, henceforth, 
I can never trust his word. Bitter, bitter confession ! Tears 
blind me while I write. It was early in March that he went, 
and he did not return till July. This time, he did not trouble 
himself to make excuses as before, and his letters were less 
frequent, and shorter and less affectionate, especially after the 
first few weeks : they came slower and slower, and more terse 
and careless every time. But still, when I omitted writing 
he complained of my neglect. When I wrote sternly and coldly, 
as I confess I frequently did at the last, he blamed my harsh- 
ness, and said it was enough to scare him from his home : when 
I tried mild persuasion, he was a little more gentle in his replies, 
and promised to return ; but I had learned at last to disregard 
his promises. 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


207 


Those were four miserable months, alternating between in- 
tense anxiety, despair, and indignation ; pity for him, and pity 
for myself. And yet, through all, I was not wholly comfortless. 
I had my darling, sinless, inoffensive little one to console me, 
but even this consolation was embittered by the constantly re- 
curring thought — “ How shall I teach him, hereafter, to respect 
nis father, and yet to avoid his example 

But I remembered that I had brought all these afflictions, in 
a manner, willfully upon myself, and I determined to bear them 
without a murmur. At the same time I resolved not to give 
myself up to misery for the transgressions of another, and en- 
deavored to divertfcimyself as much as I could ; and besides the 
companionship of my child, and my dear, faithful Rachel, who 
evidently guessed my sorrows and felt for them, though she was 
too discreet to allude to them, I had my books and pencil, my 
domestic affairs, and the welfare and comfort of Arthur’s poor 
tenants and laborers to attend to; and I sometimes sought and 
obtained amusement in the company of my young friend Esther 
Hargrave ; occasionally, I rode oveik to see her, and once or 
twice I had her to spend the day with me at the manor. Mrs. 
Hargrave did not visit London that season ; having no daughter 
to maiTy, she thought it as well to stay at home and economize ; 
and, for a wonder, Walter came down to join her in the begin- 
ning of June and staid till near the close of August. 

The first time I saw him was on a sweet, warm evening, 
when I was sauntering in the park with little Arthur and Ra- 
chel, who is head nurse and lady’s maid in one ; for, with my 
secluded life and tolerably active habits, I require but little at- 
tendance, and as she had nursed me and coveted to nurse my 
child, and was, moreover, so very trustworthy, I preferred com- 
mitting the important charge to her, with a young nursery-maid 
under her directions, to engaging any one else; besides, it 
saves money, and since I have made acquaintance with Arthur’s 
affairs, I have learned to regard that as no trifling recommend- 
ation : for, by my own desire, nearly the whole of the income 
of my fortune is devoted, for years to come, to the paying off 
his debts, and the money he contrives to squander away in 
London is incomprehensible. But to return to Mr. Hargrave : 
I was standing with Rachel beside the water, amusing the 
laughing baby in her arms, with a twig of willow laden with 
golden catkins, when, greatly to my surprise, he entered the 
park, mounted on his costly black hunter, and crossed over tho 


208 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


grass to meet me. He saluted me with a very fine compliment, 
delicately w’orded, and modestly delivered withal, which he had 
doubtless concocted as he rode along. He told me he had 
brought a message from his mother, who, as he was riding that 
way, had desired him to call at the manor, and beg the pleasure 
of my company to a friendly family dinner to-morrow. 

“ There is no one to meet but ourselves,” said he ; “ but 
JEsther is very anxious to see you, and my mother fears you will 
feel solitary in this great house, so much alone, and wishes she 
couM persuade you to give her the pleasure of your company 
more frequently, and make yourself at home in our more hum- 
ble dwelling, till Mr. Huntingdon’s return ^all render this a 
little more conducive to your comfort.” 

“ She is very kind,” I answered, “ but I am not alone, you 
see; and those whose time is fully occupied seldom complain 
of solitude.” 

“ Will you not come to-morrow, then ? She will be sadly 
disappointed if you refuse.” 

I did not relish being thtis compassionated for my loneliness, 
but, however, I promised to come. 

“ What a sweet evening this is !” observed he, looking round 
upon the sunny park, with its imposing swell and slope, its 
placid water, and majestic clumps of trees. “ And what a para- 
dise you live in !” 

“ It is a lovely evening,” answered I ; and I sighed to think 
how little I had felt its loveliness, and how little of a paradise 
sweet Grassdale was to me — how still less to the voluntary 
exile from its scenes. Whether Mr. Hargi'ave divined my 
thoughts, I can not tell ; but, with a half-hesitating, sympathizing 
seriousness of tone and manner, he asked if I had lately heard 
from Mr. Huntingdon. 

“Not lately,” I replied. 

“ I thought not,” he muttered, as if to himself, looking thought- 
fully on the ground. 

“ Are you not lately returned from London 1” I asked. 

“ Only yesterday.” 

“ And did you see him there I” 

“ Yes — I saw him.” 

“ Was he well I” 

“ Yes — that is,” said he, with increasing hesitation, and an 
appearance of suppressed indignation, “ he was as well as — as 
he deserved to be; but under circumstances I should have 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


209 


deemed incredible for a man so favored as he is.” He here 
looked up, and pointed the sentence with a serious bow to me. 
I suppose my face was crimson. 

“ JPardon me, Mrs. Huntingdon,” he continued, “ but I can 
not suppress my indignation when 1 behold such infatuated 
blindness and perversion of taste. But, perhaps you are not 
aware — .” He paused. 

“ I am aware of nothing, sir, except that he delays his coming 
longer than I expected ; and if, at present, he prefers the society 
of his friends to that of his wife, and the dissipations of the town 
to the quiet of country life, I suppose I have those friends to 
thank for it. Their tastes and occupations are similar to his, 
and I don’t see why his conduct should awaken either their 
indignation or surprise.” 

“ You wrong me cruelly,” answered he: “I have shared but 
little of Mr. Huntingdon’s society, for the last few weeks ; and 
as for his tastes and occupations, they are quite beyond me — 
lonely wanderer as I am. Where I have but sipped and tast- 
ed, he drains the cup to the dregs ; and if ever for a moment I 
have sought to drown the voice of reflection in madness and 
folly, or if I have wasted too much of my time and talents 
among reckless and dissipated companions, God knows I would 
gladly renounce them entirely and forever, if I had but half the 
blessings that man so thanklessly casts behind his back — but 
half the inducements to virtue and domestic, orderly habits that 
he despises — but such a home, and such a partner to share it ! — 
It is infamous !” he muttered between his teeth. “ And don’t 
think, Mrs. Huntingdon, he added aloud, “that I could be guilty 
of inciting him to persevere in his present pursuits : on the con- 
trary, I have remonstrated with him again and again ; I have 
frequently expressed my surprise at his conduct, and reminded 
him of his duties and his privileges — but to no purpose; he 
only—” 

“ Enough, Mr. Hargrave ; you ought to be aware that what- 
ever my husband’s faults may be, it can only aggravate the evil 
for me to hear them from a stranger’s lips.” 

“ Am I then a stranger said he, in a sorrowful tone. “ I 
am your nearest neighbor, your son’s god -father, and your hus- 
band’s friend i may I not be yours also ]” 

“ Intimate acquaintance must precede real friendship : I know 
but little of you, Mr. Hargrave, except from report.” 

“ Have you then forgotten the six or seven weeks I spent 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


yivO 


under your roof last autumn % I have not forgotten them. 
And I know enough of you^ Mrs. Huntingdon, to think that 
your husband is the most enviable man in the world, and I 
should be the next, if you would deem me worthy of your 
friendship.” 

“ If you knew more of me you would not think it ; or if you 
did, you would not say it, and expect me to be flattered by the 
compliment.” 

I stepped backward as I spoke. He saw that I wished the 
conversation to end; and immediately taking the hint, he grave- 
ly bowed, wished me good evening, and turned his horse toward 
the road. He appeared grieved and hurt at my unkind recep- 
tion of his sympathizing overtures. I was not sure that I had 
done right in speaking so harshly to him ; but at the time I had 
felt irritated — almost insulted by his conduct'; it seemed as if 
he was presuming upon the absence and neglect of my husband, 
and insinuating even more than the truth against him.; 

Hachel had moved on, during our conversation, to some yards’ 
distance. He rode up to her, and asked to see the child. He 
took it carefully into his arms, and looked upon it with an al- 
most paternal smile, and I heard him say, as I approached — 

“ And this too, he has forsaken !” 

He then tenderly kissed it, and restored it to the gratified 
nurse. 

“ Are you fond of children, Mr. Hargrave said I, a little 
softened toward him. 

“ Not in general,” he replied ; “but that is such a sweet child 
— and so like its mother,” he added in a lower tone. 

“ You are mistaken there ; it is its father it resembles.” 

“ Am I not right, nurse ?” said he, appealing to Rachel. 

“ I think, sir, there is a bit of both,” she replied. 

He departed ; and Rachel pronounced him a very nice gen- 
tleman. I had still my doubts on the subject. 

When I met him on the morrow, under his own roof, he did 
not offend me with any more of his virtuous indignation against 
Arthur, or unwelcome sympathy for me ; and, indeed, when his 
mother began, in guarded terms, to intimate her sorrow and 
surprise at my husband’s conduct, he, perceiving my annoyance, 
instantly came to the rescue, and delicately turned the conversa- 
tion, at the same time warning her, by a sidelong glance, not to 
recur to the subject again. He seemed bent upon doing the 
honors of his house in the most unexceptionable manner, and 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


211 


exerting all his powers for the entertainment of his guest, and 
the display of his own qualifications as a host, a gentleman, and 
a companion ; and actually succeeded in making himself very 
agreeable — only that he was too polite. And yet, Mr. Har- 
grave, I don’t much like you ; there is a certain want of open- 
ness about you that does not take my fancy, and a lurking self- 
ishness, at the bottom of all your fine qualities, that I do not 
intend to lose sight of. No ; for, instead of combating my 
slight prejudice against you as uncharitable, I mean to cherish 
it, until I am convinced that I have no reason to distrust this kind, 
insinuating friendship you are so anxious to push upon me. 

In the course of the following six weeks, I met him several 
times, but always, save once, in company with his mother or his 
sister, or both. When I called on them, he always happened to 
be at home, and when they called on me, it was always he that 
drove them over in the phaeton. His mother, evidently, was 
quite delighted with his dutiful attentions and newly acquired 
domestic habits. 

The time that I met him alone was on a bright but not op- 
pressively hot day in the beginning of July : I had taken little 
Arthur into the wood that skirts the park, and there seated him 
on the moss-cushioned roots of an old oak; and, having gathered 
a handful of bluebells and wild roses, I was kneeling before him, 
and presenting them, one by one, to the grasp of his tiny fingers; 
enjoying the heavenly beauty of the flowers, through the medium 
of his smiling eyes ; forgetting, for the moment, all my cares, 
laughing at his gleeful laughter, and delighting myself with his 
delight, when a shadow suddenly eclipsed the little space of 
sunshine on the grass before us ; and, looking up, I beheld 
Walter Hargrave standing and gazing upon us. 

“ Excuse me, Mrs. Huntingdon,” said he, “ but I was spell- 
bound ; I had neither the power to come forward and inter- 
rupt you, nor to withdraw from the contemplation of such a 
scene. How vigorous my little godson gi'ows ! and how merry 
he is this morning.” He approached the child and stooped to 
take his hand ; but, on seeing that his caresses were likely to 
produce tears and lamentations instead of a reciprocation of 
friendly demonstrations, he prudently drew back. 

“ What a pleasure and comfort that little creature must be 
to you, Mrs. Huntingdon !” he observed with a touch of sad- 
ness in his intonation, as he admiringly contemplated the in- 
fant. 


212 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ It is,” replied I ; and then I asked after his mother and 
sister. 

He politely answered my inquiries, and then returned again 
to the subject I wished to avoid; though with a degree of 
timidity that witnessed his fear to offend. 

“ You have not heard from Huntingdon lately 1” he said. 

“ Not this week,” I replied. Not these three weeks, I 
might have said. 

“ I had a letter from him this morning. I wish it were such 
a one as I could show to his lady.” He half drew from his 
waistcoat pocket a letter with Arthur’s still beloved hand on 
the address, scowled at it, and put it back again, adding — 
“ But he tells me he is about to return next week.” 

“ He tells me so every time he writes.” 

“ Indeed ! Well it is like him. But to me he always avowed 
it his intention to stay till the present month.” 

It struck me like a blow, this proof of premeditated trans- 
gression and systematic disregard of truth. 

“ It is only a piece with the rest of his conduct,” observed 
Mr. Hargrave, thoughtfully regarding me, and reading, I sup- 
pose, my feelings in my face. 

“ Then he is really coming next week 1” said I, after a pause. 

“ You may rely upon it — if the assurance can give you any 
pleasure. And is it possible, Mrs. Huntingdon, that you can 
rejoice at his return 1” he exclaimed, attentively perusing my 
features again. 

“ Of course, Mr. Hargrave ; is he not my husband ]” 

“ Oh, Huntingdon, you know not what you slight !” he pas- 
sionately murmured. 

I took up my baby, and, wishing him good morning, de- 
parted, to indulge my thoughts unscrutinized, within the sanctum 
of my home. 

And was I glad ] Yes, delighted ; though I was angered by 
Arthur’s conduct, and though I felt that he had WTonged me, 
and was determined he should feel it too. 



- ■ , : •. 

CHAPTER XXX. ^ 

djf- 

DOMESTIC SCENES. 

On the following morning, I received a few lines from him 
myself, confirming Hargrave’s intimations respecting his ap- 
proaching return. And he did come next week, but in a con- 
dition of body and mind even worse than before. I did not, 
however, intend to pass over his derelictions this time without 
a remark : I found it would not do. But the first day he \vas 
weary with his journey, and I was glad to get him back : I 
tvould not upbraid him then ; I would wait till to-morrow. 
Next morning, he was weary still : I would wait a little longer. 
But at dinner, when, after breakfasting at twelve o’clock on a 
bottle of soda-water and a cup of strong coffee, and lunching 
at two on another bottle of soda-water mingled with brandy, he 
was finding fault with every thing on the table, and declaring 
we must change our cook — I thought the time was come. 

“ It is the same cook as we had before you went, Arthur,” 
said I. “ You were generally pretty well satisfied with her 
then.” 

“ You must have been letting her get into slovenly habits, 
then, while I was away. It is enough to poison one — eating 
such a disgusting mess !” And he pettishly pushed away his 
plate, and leaned back despairingly in his chair. 

“ I think it is you that are changed, not she,” said I, but with 
the utmost gentleness, for I did not wish to irrifate him. 

“ It may be so,” he replied carelessly, as he seized a tumbler 
of wine and water, adding, when he had tossed it off — “ for 
I have an infernal fire in my veins, that all the waters of the 
ocean can not quench !” 

“ What kindled it I” I was about to ask; but at that moment 
the butler entered and began to take away the things. 

“ Be quick, Benson — do have done with that infernal clatter,” 
cried his master ; “ and don't bring the cheese — unless you want 
to make me sick outright.” 

Benson, in some surprise, removed the cheese, and did his 
best to effect a quiet and speedy clearance of the rest : but, 
unfortunately, there was a rumple in the carpet, caused by the 
hasty pushing back of his master’s chair, at which he tripped 


21^ 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


and stumbled, causing a rather alarming concussion with the 
trayful of crockery in his hands, but no positive damage, save 
the fall and breaking of a sauce tureen ; but, to my unspeakable 
shame and dismay, Arthur turned furiously around upon him, 
and swore at him with savage coarseness. The poor man turned 
pale, and visibly trembled as he stooped to pick up the frag- 
ments. 

“ He couldn’t help it, Arthur,” said I ; “ the carpet caught 
his foot — and there’s no great harm done. Never mind the 
pieces now, Benson ; you can clear them away afterward.” 

Glad to be released, Benson expeditiously set out the dessert 
and withdrew. 

“What could you mean, Helen, by taking the servant’s part 
against me,” said Arthur, as soon as the door was closed, “when 
you knew I was distracted T’ 

“ I did not know you were distracted, Arthur, and the poor 
man was quite frightened and hurt at your sudden explosion.” 

“ Poor man indeed ! and do you think I could stop to con- 
sider the feelings of an insensate brute like that, when my own 
nerves were racked and torn to pieces by his confounded blun- 
ders T’ 

“I never heard you comj)lain of your nerves before.” 

“ And why shouldn’t I have nerves as well as you ]” 

“Oh, I don’t dispute your claim to their possession, but 1 
never complain of mine.” 

“ No — how should you, when you never do any thing to try 
them 1” 

“ Then why do you try yours, Arthur ?” 

“ Do you think I have nothing to do but to stay at home and 
take care of myself like a woman 

“ Is it impossible, then, to take care of yourself like a man 
when you go abroad 1 You told me that you could, and would 
too ; and you promised — ” 

“Come, ^come, Helen, don’t begin with that nonsense now; 
I can’t bear it.” 

“ Can’t bear what 1 to be reminded of the promises you have 
broken 

“ Helen, you are cruel. If you knew how my heart throbbed, 
and how every nerve thrilled through me while you spoke, you' 
would spare me. You can pity a dolt of a servant for breaking 
a dish ; but you have no compassion for me, when my head is 
split in two and all on lire with this consuming fever.” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


215 


He leaned his head on his hand and sighed. I went to him 
and put my hand on his forehead. It was burning indeed. 

“ Then come with me into the drawing-room, Arthur ; and 
don’t take any more wine ; you have taken several glasses since 
dinner, and eaten next to nothing all the day. How can that 
make you better ]” 

With some coaxing and persuasion, I got him to leave the 
table. When the baby was brought I tried to amuse him with 
that ; but poor little Arthur was cutting his teeth, and his father 
could not bear his complaints ; sentence of immediate banish- 
ment was passed upon him on the first indication of fi'etfulness; 
and, because, in the course of the evening, I went to share his 
exile for a little while, I was reproached, on my return, for pre- 
ferring my child to my husband. I found the latter reclining on 
the sofa just as I had left him. 

“Well!” exclaimed the injured man, in a tone of pseudo- 
resignation. “ I thought I wouldn’t send for you ; I thought I’d 
just see how long it would please you to leave me alone.” 

“ I have not been very long, have I, Arthur % I have not been 
an hour, I’m sure.” 

“ Oh, of course an hour is nothing to you, so pleasantly em- 
ployed ; but to me ” 

“ It has not been pleasantly employed,” interrupted I. “ I 
have been nursing our poor little baby, who is very far from 
well, and I could not leave him till I got him to sleep.” 

“ Oh, to be sure, you’re oveiHowing with kindness and pity 
for every thing but me.” 

“And why should I pity you ? what is the matter with you I” 

“ Well I that passes every thing 1 After all the wear and tear 
that I’ve had, when I come home sick and weary, longing for 
comfort, and expecting to find attention and kindness, at least 
from my wife — she calmly asks what is the matter with me 1” 

“ There is nothing the matter with you,” returned I, “ except 
what you have willfully brought upon yourself against my earn- 
est exhortation and entreaty.” 

“Now, Helen,” said he, emphatically, half rising from his 
recumbent posture, “if you bother me with another word. I’ll 
ring the bell and order six bottles of wine — and, by Heaven, 
I’ll diink them dry before I stir from this place.” 

I said no more, but sat down before the table and drew a 
book toward me. 

“ Do let me have quietness, at least,” continued he, “ if you 


216 


THE TENANT OF AVILDFELL HALL. 


deny me every other comfort,” and sinking back into his former 
position, vv^ith an impatient expiration between a sigh and a 
groan, he languidly closed his eyes as if to sleep. 

What the book was, that lay open on the table before me, I 
can not tell, for I never looked at it. With an elbow on each 
side of it, and my hands clasped before my eyes, I delivered 
myself up to silent weeping. But Arthur was not asleep ; at 
the first slight sob, he raised his head and looked round, impa- 
tiently exclaiming — 

“ What are you crying for, Helen ? What the deuce is the 
matter no?/? ?” 

“ I’m crying for you Arthur,” I replied, speedily drying my 
tears; and starting up, I threw myself on my knees before him, 
and, clasping his nerveless hand between my own, continued : 
“ Don’t you know that you are a part of myself ] And do you 
think you can injure and degrade yourself, and I not feel it ]” 

“ Degrade myself, Helen ]” 

“ Yes, degi’ade ! What have you been doing all this time 1” 

“ You’d better not ask,” said he with a faint smile. ^ 

“And you had better not tell — but you can not deny that 
you have degraded yourself miserably. You have shamefully 
wronged yourself, body and soul — and me too; and I can’t 
endure it quietly — and I won’t !” 

“ Well, don’t squeeze my hand so frantically, and don’t agi- 
tate me so, for Heaven’s sake ! Oh, Hattersley ! you were 
right ; this woman’ will be the death of me, with her keen feel- 
ings, and her interesting force of character! — There, there, do 
spare me a little.” 

“ Arthur, you must repent 1” cried I, in a frenzy of despera- 
tion, throwing my aims around him and burying my face in his 
bosom. “ You shall say you are sorry for what you have 
done !” 

“ Well, well, I am.” 

“ You are not ! you’ll do it again.” 

“ I shall never live to do it again, if you treat me so savage- 
ly,” replied he,-pushing me from him. “You’ve nearly squeezed 
the breath out of my body.” He pressed his hand to his heart, 
and looked really agitated and ill. 

“ Now get me a glass of wine,” said he, “ to remedy what 
you’ve done, you she-tiger ! I’m almost ready to faint.” 

I flew to get the required remedy. It seemed to revive him 
considerably. 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


217 


“ What a shame it is,” said I, as I took the empty glass from 
his hand, “ for a strong young man like you to reduce yourself 
to such a state ! ” 

“ If you knew all, my girl, you’d say rather, ‘ What a won- 
der it is you can bear it so well as you do ! I’ve lived more in 
these four months, Helen, than you have in the whole course 
of your existence, or will to the end of your days, if they num- 
bered a hundred years ; so I must expect to pay for it in some 
shape.” 

“You will have to pay a higher price than you anticipate, if 
you don’t take care — there will be the total loss of your own 
health, and of my affection too — if that is of any value to you.” 

“What, you’re at that game of threatening me with the loss 
of your affection again, are you ! I think it couldn’t be very gen- 
uine stuff to begin with, if it’s so easily demolished. If you don’t 
mind, my pretty tyrant, you’ll make me regret my choice in 
good earnest, and envy my friend Hattersley, his meek little 
wife — she’s quite a pattern to her sex, Helen. He had her 
with him in London all the season, and she was no trouble at 
all. He might amuse himself just as he pleased, in regular 
bachelor style, and she never complained of neglect ; he might 
come home at any hour of the night or morning, or not come 
home at all ; be sullen sober, or glorious drunk ; and play the 
fool or the madman to his own heart’s desire without any fear 
or botheration. She never gives him a word of reproach or 
complaint, do w^hat he will. He says there’s not such a jewel 
in all England, and swears he wouldn’t take a kingdom for 
her.” 

“ But he makes her life a curse to her.” 

“ Not he ! She has no will but his, and is always contented 
and happy as long as he is enjoying himself.” 

“ In that case, she is as great a fool as he is ; but it is not so. 
I have several letters from her, expressing the greatest anxiety 
about his proceedings, and complaining that you incite him to 
commit those extravagances — one especially, in which she im- 
plores me to use my influence with you to get you away from 
London, and affirms that her husband never did such things 
before you came, and would certainly discontinue them as 
soon as you departed and left him to the guidance of his own 
good sense.” 

“ The detestable little traitor ! Give me the letter, and he 
shall see it, as sure as I’m a living man.” 

K 


218 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ No, he shall not see it without her consent ; but if he did, 
there is nothing there to anger him — nor in any of the others. 
She never speaks a word against him — it is only anxiety for 
him that she expresses. She only alludes to his conduct in the 
most delicate terms, and makes every excuse for him that she 
can possibly think of — and as for her own misery, I rather feel 
it than see it expressed in her letters.” 

“ But she abuses me ; and no doubt you helped her.” 

“ No ; I told her she over-rated my influence with you, that 
I would gladly draw you away from the temptations of the 
town if I could, but had little hope of success, and that I 
thought she was wrong in supposing that you enticed Mr. Hat- 
tersley or any one else into error. I had, myself, held the 
contrary opinion at one time, but I now believed that you mu- 
tually corrupted each other ; and, perhaps, if she used a little 
gentle, but serious remonstrance with her husband, it might be 
of some service, as though he was more rough-hewn than mine, 
I believed he was of a less impenetrable material.’’ 

“ And so that is the way you go on — heartening each other 
up to mutiny, and abusing each other’s partners, and throwing 
out implications against your own, to the mutual gratification 
of both !” 

“ According to your account,” said I, “ my evil counsel has 
had but little effect upon her. And as to abuse and aspersions, 
we are both of us far too deeply ashamed of the errors and 
vices of our other halves, to make them the common subject of 
our correspondence. Friends as we are, we would willingly 
keep your failings to ourselves — even from ourselves if we 
could, unless by knowing them we could deliver you from 
them.” 

“Well, well! don’t woiTy me about them: you’ll never effect 
any good by that. Have patience with me, and bear with my 
languor and crossness a little while, till I get this cursed low 
fever out of my veins, and then you’ll find me cheerful and kind 
as ever. Why can’t you be gentle and good as you were last 
time I’m sure I was very grateful for it.” 

“ And what good did your gratitude do ? I deluded myself 
with the idea that you were ashamed of your transgressions, and 
hoped you would never repeat them again ; but now, you have 
left me nothing to hope !” 

“ My case is quite desperate, is it ] A very blessed consider- 
ation, if it will only secure me from the pain and worry of my 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


219 


dear, anxious wife’s efforts to convert me, and her from the toil 
and trouble of such exertions, and her sweet face and silver 
accents from the fuinous effects of the same. A burst of pas- 
sion is a fine, rousing thing upon occasion, Helen, and a flood of 
tears is marvelously affecting, but, when indulged too often, they 
are both deuced plaguy things for spoiling one’s beauty and 
tiling out one’s friends.” 

Thenceforth, I restrained my tears aiivi passions as much as I 
could. I spared him my exhortations and fruitless efforts at 
conversion too, for I saw it was all in vain : God might awaken 
that heart supine and stupefied with self-indulgence, and remove 
the film of sensual darkness from his eyes, but I could not. His 
injustice and ill-humor toward his inferiors, who could not defend 
themselves, I still restrained and withstood ; but when I alone 
was their object, as was frequently the case, I endured it with 
calm forbearance, except at times when my temper, worn out 
by repeated annoyances, or stung to distraction by some new 
instance of irrationality, gave way in spite of myself, and exposed 
me to the imputations of fierceness, cruelty, and impatience. I 
attended carefully to his wants and amusements, but not, I own, 
with the sa’rne devoted fondness as before, because, I could not 
feel it : besides, I had now another claimant on my time and 
care — my ailing infant, for whose sake I frequently braved and 
suffered the reproaches and complaints of his unreasonably 
exacting father. 

But Arthur is not naturally a peevish or irritable man — so far 
from it that there was something almost ludicrous in the incon- 
gruity of this adventitious fretfulness and nervous irritability, 
rather calculated to excite laughter than anger, if it were not 
for the intensely painful considerations attendant upon those 
symptoms of a disordered frame. And his temper gradually 
improved as his bodily health was restored, which was much 
sooner than would have been the case, but for my strenuous 
exertions ; for there was still one thing about him that I did not 
give up in despair, and one effort for his preservation that I 
would not remit. His appetite for the stimulus of wine had 
increased upon him, as I had too well foreseen. It was now 
something more to him than an accessory to social enjoyment : 
it was an important source of enjoyment in itself. In this time 
of weakness and depression he would have made it his medi- 
cine, and support, his comforter, his recreation, and his friend — 
and thereby sunk deeper and deeper — and bound himself down 


220 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 



forever in the bathos whereinto he had fallen. But I deter- 
mined this should never be, as long as I had any influence left; 
and though I could not prevent him from taking more than was 
good for him, still, by incessant perseverance, by kindness, and 
firmness, and vigilance, by coaxing, and daring, and determina- 
tion, I succeeded in presei*ving him from absolute bondage to 
that detestable propensity, so insidious in its advances, so inex- 
orable in its tyranny, so disastrous in its effects. 

And here, I must not forget that I am not a little indebted to 
nis friend Mr. Hargrave. About that time he frequently called 
at Grassdale, and often dined with us, on which occasions, I 
fear, Arthur would willingly have cast prudence and decorum 
to the winds and made “ a night of it,” as often as his friend 
would have consented to join him in that exalted pastime ; and 
if the latter had chosen to comply, he might in a night or two, 
have ruined the labor of weeks, and overthrown with a touch, 
the frail bulwark it had cost me such trouble and toil to con- 
struct. I was so fearful of this at first, that I humbled myself to 
intimate to him, in private, my apprehensions of Arthur’s prone- 
ness to these excesses and to express a hope that he would not 
encourage it. He was pleased with this mark of confidence, 
and certainly did not betray it. On that and eve^y subsequent 
occasion, his presence served rather as a check upon his host, 
than an incitement to further acts of intemperance ; and he 
always succeeded in bringing him from the dining-room in good 
time and in tolerably good condition ; for if Arthur disregarded 
such intimations, as “ Well, I must not detain you from your 
lady,” or “We must not forget that Mrs. Huntingdon is alone,” 
he would insist upon leaving the table himself, to join me, and 
his host, however unwillingly, was obliged to follow. 

Hence I learned to welcome Mr. Hargi'ave as a real fiiend to 
the family, a harmless companion for Arthur, to cheer his spirits 
and preserve him from the tedium of absolute idleness .and a 
total isolation from all society but mine, and a useful ally to me. 
I could not but feel grateful to him under such circumstances ; 
and I did not scruple to acknowledge my obligation on the first 
convenient opportunity ; yet, as I did so, my heart whispered 
all was not right, and brought a glow to my face, which he 
heightened by his steady, serious gaze, while, by his manner of 
receiving those acknowledgments, he more than doubled my 
misgivings. His high delight at being able to serve me, was 
cliastened by sympathy for me and commiseration for himself^ — 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


221 


about I know not what, for I would not stay to inquire, or suffer 
him to unburden his sorrows to me. His sighs and intimations 
of suppressed affliction seemed to come from a full heart ; but 
either he must contrive to retain them within it, or breathe them 
forth in other ears than mine : there was enough of confidence 
between us already. It seemed wrong that there should exist 
a secret understanding between my husband’s friend and me, un- 
known to him, of which he was the object. But my afterthought 
was, “If it is wrong, surely Arthur’s is the fault, not mine.” 

And, indeed, I know not whether at the time, it was not for 
him rather than myself that I blushed; for, since he and I are one, 
I so identify myself with him, that I feel his degradation, his fail- 
ings, and transgressions as my own ; I blush for him, I fear for him ; 
I repent for him; weep, pray, and feel for him, as for myself ; but 
I can not act for him ; and hence, I must be and I am debased, 
contaminated by the union, both in my own eyes, and in the actu- 
al truth. I am so determined to love him ; so intensely anxious 
to excuse his errors, that I am continually dwelling upon them, 
and laboring to extenuate the loosest of his principles and the 
worst of his practices, till I am familiarized with vice and almost 
a partaker in his sins. Things that formerly shocked and dis- 
gusted me, now seem only natural. I know them to be wrong, 
because reason and God’s word declare them to be so ; but I 
am gradually losing that instinctive horror and repulsion which 
was given me by nature, or instilled into me by the precepts and 
example of my aunt. Perhaps, then, I was too severe in my 
judgment, for I abhorred the sinner as well as the sin ; now, I 
flatter myself I am more charitable and considerate ; but am I 
not becoming more indifferent and insensate tool Fool that I 
was, to dream that I had strength and purity enough to save 
myself and him ! Such vain presumption would be rightly 
served, if I should perish with him in the gulf from which I 
sought to save him ! Y et, God preserve me from it ! and him 
too. Yes, poor Arthur, I will still hope and pray for you ; and 
though I write as if you were some abandoned w’retch, past 
hope and past reprieve, it is only my anxious fears — my strong 
desires that make me do so; one who loved you less would be 
less bitter, less dissatisfied. 

His conduct has of late been what the world calls iiTeproach- 
able ; but then I know his heart is still unchanged ; and I know 
that spring is approaching, and deeply dread the consequences. 

As he began to recover the tone and vigor of his exhausted 


222 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


frame, and with it something of his former impatience of retire- 
ment and repose, I suggested a short residence by the sea-side, 
for his recreation and further restoration, and for the benefit of 
our little one as well. But no; watering-places were so intoler- 
ably dull — besides, he had been invited by one of his friends to 
spend a month or two in Scotland for the better recreation of 
grouse-shooting and deer-stalking, and had promised to go. 

“ Then you will leave me again, Arthur I’’ said 1. 

“ Yes, dearest, but only to love you the better when I come 
back, and make up for all past offenses and short-comings; and 
you needn’t fear me this time ; there are no temptations on the 
mountains. And during my absence you may pay a visit to 
Staningley, if you like : your uncle and aunt have long been 
wanting us to go there, you know ; but somehow, there’s such 
a repulsion between the good lady and me, that I never could 
bring myself up to the scratch.” 

I was perfectly willing to avail myself of this pennission, 
though not a little apprehensive of my aunt’s questions and 
comments concerning my matrimonial experience, regarding 
which I had been very reserved in my letters, for I had not 
much that was pleasant to communicate. 

About the third week in August, Arthur set out for Scotland, 
and Mr. Hargrave accompanied him thither, to my private satis- 
faction. Shortly after, I, with little Arthur and Rachel, went to 
Staningley, my dear old home, which, as well as my dear old 
friends its inhabitants, I saw again with mingled feelings of 
pleasure and pain so intimately blended that I could scarcely 
distinguish the one from the other, or tell to which to attribute 
the various tears, and smiles, and sighs awakened by those old 
familiar scenes, and tones, and faces. Not quite two years had 
passed since I had seen and heard them last ; but it seemed a 
far, far longer time ; and well it might, for how immeasurably 
changed was I ! How many things had I not seen, and felt, and 
learned since then ! My unde too appeared perceptibly more 
aged and infirm, my aunt more sad and grave. I believe she 
thought I had repented of my rashness ; though she did not 
openly express her conviction, or triumphantly remind me of her 
flighted counsels, as I had partly feared she would; but she ob- 
served me narrowly — more narrowly than I liked to be ob- 
served — and seemed to mistrust my cheerfulness, and unduly 
mark each little indication of sadness or serious thought, to 
notice all my casual observations, and silently draw her own 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


223 


inferences from them ; while, by a system of quiet cross-ques- 
tioning, renewed from time to time, she drew from me many 
things I should not otherwise have told her, and laying this and 
that together, obtained, I fear, a pretty clear conception of my 
husband’s faults and my afflictions, though not of my remaining 
sources of comfort and hope, for though I endeavored to im- 
press her strongly with the notion of Arthur’s redeeming quali- 
ties, of our mutual affection, and the many causes I had for 
thankfulness and self-congratulation, she received all such inti- 
mations coldly and calmly, as if mentally making her own de- 
ductions; which deductions, I am persuaded, were generally 
far beyond the truth — though I certainly did exaggerate a little 
in attempting to picture the bright side of my position. Was 
it pride that made me so extremely anxious to appear satisfied 
with my lot 1 or merely a just determination to bear my self- 
imposed burden alone, and preserve my best friend from the 
slightest participation in those sorrows from which she had striv- 
en so hard to save me 1 It might have been something of each, 
but I am sure the latter motive was predominant. 

I did not much prolong my visit, for, <iot only did I feel my 
aunt’s relentless w'atchfulness and incredulity to be a restraint 
upon me, and a silent reproach that oppressed me more than 
she could well imagine, but I was sensible that my little Arthur 
was an annoyance to his uncle, though the latter wished him 
well, and no great amusement to his aunt, though an object of 
her earnest affection and anxious solicitude. 

Dear aunt ! have you so tenderly reared me from infancy, so 
carefully guided and instructed me in childhood and youth ; 
and could I give you no return but this — to disappoint your 
hopes, oppose your wishes, scorn your waniings and advice, 
and darken your latter years with anxious fears and sorrow for 
the sufferings you can not relieve 1 It almost broke my heart 
to think of it; and again and again I endeavored to convince 
her that I was happy and contented with my lot ; but her last 
words, as she embraced me and kissed the child in my arms, 
before I entered the carriage, were — 

“ Take care of your son, Helen, and there may be happy 
days in store for you yet. How great a comfort and treasure 
he is to you now I can well imagine ; but if you spoil him to 
gratify your present feelings, it will be too late to repent it 
when your heart is broken.” 

Arthur did not come home till several weeks after my return 


224 


'i’nK TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


to Grassclale ; but I did not feel so anxious about him now : to 
think of him engaged in active sports among the wild hills of 
Scotland, was very different from knowing him to be immersed 
amidst the corruptions and temptations of London. His letters, 
now, though neither long nor lover-like, were more regular 
than ever they had been before ; and when he did return, to 
my great joy, instead of being worse than when he went, he 
was more cheerful and vigorous, and better in every respect. 
Since that time, I have had little cause to complain. He still 
has an unfortunate predilection for the pleasures of the table, 
against which I have to struggle and watch ; but he has begun 
to notice his boy, and that is an increasing source of amuse- 
ment to him within doors ; while his fox-hunting and coursing 
are a sufficient occupation for him without, when the ground is 
not hardened by frost ; so that he is not wholly dependent on 
me for entertainment. But it is now January : spring is ap- 
proaching; and, I repeat, I dread the ‘consequences of its 
arrival. That sweet season, t once so joyously welcomed as 
the time of hope and gladness, awakens now far other antici- 
pations by its return. • 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

SOCIAL VIRTUES. 

March 20th, 1824. — The dreaded time is come, and Arthur 
is gone, as I expected. This time he announced it his inten- 
tion to make but a short stay in London, and pass over to the 
continent, where he should probably stay a few weeks; but 
I shall not expect him till after the lapse of many weeks : I 
now know that, with him, days signify weeks, and weeks 
months. 

I was to have accompanied him, but a little before the time 
arranged for our departure, he allowed, and even urged me, 
with an appearance of wonderful self-sacrifice, to go and see 
my unfortunate father, who is very ill, and my brother, who is 
very unhappy in consequence of both the illness and its cause, 
and whom I had not seen since the day our child was christened, 
when he stood sponsor along with Mr. Hargrave and ray aunt. 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


225 


Not willing to impose upon my husband’s good-nature in thus 
allowing me to leave him, I made but a very short stay ; but 
when I returned to Grassdale — he was gone. 

He left a note to explain his so hasty departure, pretending 
that some sudden emergency had demanded his immediate 
presence in London, and rendered it impossible to await my re- 
turn; adding, that I had better not trouble myself to follow him, 
as he intended to make such a short stay, that it would hardly 
be worth while; and as, of course, he could travel alone at 
less than half the expense than if I accompanied him, it would 
perhaps be better to defer the excursion to another year, when 
he should have got our affairs into a rather more settled state, 
as he was now endeavoring to do. 

Was it really so] or was the whole a contrivance to insure 
his going forth upon his pleasure-seeking excursion, without my 
presence to restrain him ] It is painful to doubt the sincerity 
of those we love, but after so many proofs of falsity and utter 
disregard to principle how can I believe so improbable a story ] 

I have this one source of consolation left : — he had told me 
some time previously, that if ever he went to London or Paris 
again, he should observe more moderation in his indulgences 
than before, lest he should destroy his capacity for enjoyment 
altogether : he had no ambition to live to a prodigious old age, 
but he should like to have his share of life, and above all, to 
relish its pleasures to the last ; to which end, he found it neces- 
sary to economize, for already, he feared, he was not so hand- 
some a fellow as he had been ; and, young as he was, he had 
lately detected some gray hairs among his beloved chestnut 
locks ; he suspected he was getting a trifle fatter, too, than was 
quite desirable, but that was \vith good living and idleness ; and 
for the rest, he trusted he was as strong and hearty as ever, only 
there was no saying what another such a season of unlimited 
madness and devilment as the last, might not do toward bring- 
ing him down. Yes ; he said this to me^ with unblushing ef- 
frontery, and that same blythe, roguish twinkle of the eyes I 
once so loved to see, and that low, joyous laugh it used to 
warm my heart to hear. 

Well ! such considerations will doubtless have more weight 
with him than any that I could urge. We shall see what they 
can do toward his preservation, since no better hope remains. 

July 30th. — He returned about three weeks ago, rather better 
in health, certainly, than before, but still worse in temper. 

K* 


226 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


And yet, perhaps, I am wrong : it is J that am less patient and 
forbearing. I am tired out with his injustice, liis selfishness, 
and hopeless depravity — I wish a milder word would do. I. am 
no angel, and my corruption rises against it. My poor father 
died last week; Arthur was vexed to hear of it, because he 
saw that I was shocked and grieved, and he feared the circum- 
stance would mar his comfort. When I spoke of ordering my 
mourning, he exclaimed — 

“ Oh, I hate black ! But, however, I suppose you must wear 
it awhile, for form’s sake ; but I hope, Helen, you w'on’t think 
it your bounden duty to compose your face and manners into 
conformity with your funereal garb. Why should you sigh and 
groan, and I be made uncomfortable, because an old gentleman 

All shire, a perfect stranger to us both, has thought proper 

to drink himself to death ] There now, I declare you’re crying ! 
Well, it must be affectation.” 

He would not hear of my attending the funeral, or going for 
a day or two, to cheer poor Frederic’s solitude. It was quite 
unnecessary, he said, and I was unreasonable to wish it. What 
was my father to me % I had never seen him but once, since I 
was a baby, and I well knew he had never cared a stiver about 
me ; and my brother, too, was little better than a stranger. 
“ Besides, dear Helen,” said he, embracing me with flattering 
fondness, “ I can not spare you for a single day.” 

“ Then how have you managed without me, these many 
days “I” said I. 

“ Ah ! then I was knocking about the world, now I am at 
home ; and home, without you, my household deity, would be 
intolerable.” 

“Yes, as long as I am necessary to your comfort; but you 
did not say so before, when you urged me to leave you, in 
order that you might get away from your home without me,” 
retorted I ; but before the words were well out of my mouth, I 
regretted having uttered them. It seemed so heavy a charge ; 
if false, too gross an insult, if true, too humiliating a fact to be 
thus openly cast in his teeth. But I might have spared myself 
that momentary pang of self-reproach. The accusation awoke 
neither shame qor indignation in him ; he attempted neither 
denial nor excuse, but only answered with a long, low, chuck- 
ling laugh, as if he viewed the whole transaction as a clever, 
merry jest, from beginning to end. Surely that man will make 
me dislike him at last ! 


THE TENANT OP WILDFELL HALL. 


227 


“ Sine as ye brew, my maiden fair, 

Keep mind that ye maun drink the yilL” 

Yes ; and I will drink it, to the very dregs ; and none but my- 
self shall know how bitter I find it ! 

August 20th. — We are shaken down again to about our usual 
position. Arthur has returned to nearly his former condition 
and habits, and I have found it my wisest plan to shut my eyes 
against the past and future, as far as he at least is concerned, 
and live only for the present ; to love him when I can ; to smile 
(if possible) when he smiles, be cheerful when he is cheerful, 
and pleased when he is agreeable ; and when he is not, to try 
to make him so ; and if that won’t answer, to bear with him, to 
excuse him, and forgive him, as well as I can, and restrain my 
own evil passions from aggravating his ; and yet, while I thus 
yield and minister to his more harmless propensities to self- 
indulgence, to do all in my power to save him from the worse. 

But we shall not be long alone together. I shall shortly be 
called upon to entertain the same select body of friends as we 
had the autumn before last, with the addition of Mr. Hattersley, 
and, at my special request, his wife and child. I long to see 
Milicent, and her little girl too. The latter is now above a 
year old ; she will be a charming playmate for my little Arthur. 

September 30th. — Our guests have been here a week or two ; 
but I have had no leisure to pass any comments upon them till 
now. I can not get over my dislike to Lady Lowborough. It 
is not founded on mere personal pique ; it is the woman herself 
that I dislike, because I so thoroughly disapprove of her. I 
always avoid her company as much as I can without violating 
the laws of hospitality ; but when we do speak or converse to- 
gether, it is with the utmost civility — even apparent cordiality 
on her part. But preserve me from such cordiality ! It is like 
handling briar-roses and May-blossoms — bright enough to the 
eye, and outwardly soft to the touch, but you know there are 
thorns beneath, and every now and then you feel them too; 
and perhaps resent the injury by crushing them in till you have 
destroyed their power, though somewhat to the detriment of 
your own fingers. 

Of late, however, I have seen nothing in her conduct toward 
Arthur to anger or alarm me. During the first few days I 
thought she seemed very solicitous to win his admiration. Her 
efforts were not unnoticed by him. I frequently saw him smil- 
ing to himself at her artful raanceuvres ; but, to his praise be it 


228 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


spoken, her shafts fell powerless by his side. Her most bewitch- 
ing smiles, her haughtiest frowns were ever received with the 
same immutable, careless good-humor ; till, finding he was in- 
deed impenetrable, she suddenly remitted her efforts, and be- 
came, to all appearance, as perfectly indifferent as himself. Nor 
have I since witnessed any symptom of pique on his part, or 
renewed attempts at conquest upon hers. 

This is as it should be; but Arthur never will let me be satis- 
fied with him. I have never, for a single hour since I mariied 
him, known what it is to realize that sweet idea, “ In quietness 
and confidence shall be your rest.” Those two detestable men, 
Grimsby and Hattersley, have destroyed all my labor against 
his love of wine. They encourage him daily to overstep the 
bounds of moderation, and, not unfrequently, to disgrace him- 
self by positive excess. I shall not soon forget the second night 
after their ariival. Just as I had retired from the dining-room, 
with the ladies, before the door was closed upon us, Arthur ex- 
claimed — 

“ Now then, my lads, what say you to a regulat jollifica- 
tion 

Milicent glanced at mo with a half reproachful look, as if 1 
could hinder it; 'but her countenance changed when she heard 
Hattersley’s voice shouting through door and wall — 

“ Tm your man! Send for more wine: here isn’t hay- 
enough!” 

We had scarcely entered the drawing-room before we were 
joined by Lord Lowborough. 

What can induce you to come so soon V’ exclaimed his lady, 
with a most ungracious air of dissatisfaction. 

“ You know I never drink, Annabella,” replied he, seriously. 

“Well, but you might stay with them a little; it looks so 
silly to be always dangling after the women — I wonder you 
can !” 

He reproached her with a look of mingled bitterness and 
surprise, and sinking into a chair, suppressed a heavy sigh, bit 
his pale lips, and fixed his eyes upon the floor. 

“ You did right to leave them. Lord Lowborough,” said I. 
“ I trust you will always continue to honor us so early with 
your company. And if Annabella knew the value of true wis- 
dom, and the misery of folly and — and intemperance, she would 
not talk such nonsense — even in jest.” 

He raised his eyes while I spoke, and gravely turned them 


THE TENANT OF VVILDFELL HALL. 


229 


upon "me with a half surprised, half abstracted look, and then 
bent them on his wife. 

“ At least,” said she, “ I know the value of a warm heart, 
and a bold, manly spirit !” 

And she pointed her words with a glance of triumph at me, 
which seemed to say, “ And that is more than you do,” and a 
look of scorn at her husband, that entered into his soul. I was 
intensely exasperated; but it was not for me to reprove her, 
or, as it seemed, to express my sympathy with her husband 
without insulting his feelings. All I could do, to obey my in- 
ward impulse was, to hand him a cup of coffee, bringing it to 
him myself, and before I served either of the ladies, by way of 
balancing her contempt by my exceeding deference. He took 
it mechanically fi*om my hand, with a slight inclination, and, 
next minute, rose and placed it untasted on the table, looking, 
not at it, but at her. 

“Well, Annabella,” said he, in a deep and hollow tone, 
“ since my presence is disagreeable to you, I will relieve you 
of it.” 

“ Are you going back to them, then "I” said she, carelessly. 

“No !” exclaimed he, with harsh and startling emphasis; 
“ I will NOT go back to them ! And I will never stay with them 
one moment longer than I think right, for you or any other 
tempter ! But you needn’t mind that — I shall never trouble 
you again, by intruding my company upon you so unseason- 
ably.” 

He then left the room, I heard the hall door open and shut, 
and immediately after, on putting aside the curtain, I saw him 
pacing down the park, in the comfortless gloom of the damp, 
cloudy twilight 

Such scenes as this are always disagreeable to witness. Our 
little party was completely silenced for a moment. Milicent 
played with her teaspoon, and looked confounded and uncom- 
fortable. If Annabella felt any shame or uneasiness, she at- 
tempted to hide it by a short, reckless laugh, and calmly betook 
herself to her coffee. 

“ It would sei-ve you right, Annabella,” said I at length, “ if 
Lord Low borough were to return to his old habits, which had 
so nearly effected his ruin, and which it cost him such an effort to 
break. You would then see cause to repent such conduct as 
this.” 

“ Not at all, my dear ! I should not mind if his lordship were 


230 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


to see lit to intoxicate himself every day : I should only the 
sooner be rid of him.” 

“ Oh, Annabella !” cried Milicent. “ How can you say such 
wicked things ! It would indeed be a just punishment, as far 
as you are concerned, if providence should take you at your 
word, and make you feel what others feel that — ” She paused 
as a sudden burst of loud talking and laughter reached us 
from the dining-room, in which the voice of Hattersley was pre- 
eminently conspicuous, even to my unpracticed ear. 

“ What you feel at this moment, I suppose 1” said Lady Low- 
borough, with a malicious smile, fixing her eyes upon her cous- 
in’s distressed countenance. 

The latter offered no reply, but averted her face and brushed 
away a tear. At that moment the door opened and admitted 
Mr. Hargrave ; just a little flushed, his dark eyes sparkling with 
unwonted vivacity. 

“Oh, I’m glad you’re come, Walter !” cried his sister. “ But 
I wish you could have got Ralph to come, too.” 

“ Utterly impossible, dear Milicent,” replied he, gayly. “ I 
had much ado to get away myself Ralph attempted to keep 
me by violence ; Huntingdon threatened me with the eternal 
loss of his friendship ; and Grimsby, worse than all, endeavored 
to make me ashamed of my virtue, by such galling sarcasms and 
inuendos as he knew would wound me the most. So you see, 
ladies, you ought to make me welcome when I have braved and 
suffered so much for the favor of your sweet society. He smil- 
ingly turned to me and bowed as he finished the sentence. 

“ Isn’t he handsome^ now, Helen T’ whispered Milicent, her 
sisterly pride overcoming, for the moment, all other consider- 
ations. 

“ He would be,” I returned, “ if that brilliancy of eye, and 
lip, and cheek were natural to him ; but look again, a few hours 
hence.” 

Here the gentleman took a seat near me at the table, and 
petitioned for a cup of coffee.” 

“ I consider this an apt illustration of Heaven taken by storm,” 
said he, as I handed one to him. “ I am in paradise now ; but 
I have fought my way through flood and fire to win it. Ralph 
Hattersley ’s last resource was to set his back against the door, 
and swear I should find no passage but through his body (a 
pretty substantial one, too). Happily, however, that was not 
the only door, and I effected my escape by the side enlinnce. 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


231 


through the butler’s pantry, to the infinite amazement of Ben- 
son, who was cleaning the plate.” 

Mr. Hargrave laughed, and so did his cousin ; but his sister 
and I remained silent and grave. 

“ Pardon my levity, Mrs. Huntingdon,” murmured he, more 
seriously, as he raised his eyes to my face. “ You are not used, 
to these things : you suffer them to affect your delicate mind too 
sensibly. •But I thought of you in the midst of those lawless 
roisterers ; and I endeavored to persuade Mr. Huntingdon to 
think of you, too ; but to no purpose : I fear he is fully deter- 
mined to enjoy himself this night ; and it will be no use keeping 
the coffee waiting for him or his companions : it will be much 
if they join us at tea. Meantime, I earnestly wish I could ban- 
ish the thoughts of them from your mind — and my own, too, for 
I hate to think of them — yes, even of my dear friend Hunting- 
don, when I consider the power he possesses over the happiness 
of one so immeasurably superior to himself, and the use he 
makes of it — I positively detest the man !” 

“ You had better not say so to me, then,” said I ; “ for, bad 
as he is, he is part of myself, and you can not abuse him with- 
out offending me.” 

“ Pardon me, then, for I would sooner die than offend 
■you. But let us say no more of him for the present, if you 
please.” 

He then entirely changed the subject of discourse, and, ex- 
erting all his powers to entertain our little circle, conversed on 
different topics with more than his usual brilliancy and fluency, 
addressing himself, sometimes, exclusively to me — sometimes to 
the whole trio of ladies. Annabella cheerfully bore her part in 
the conversation ; but I was sick at heart, especially w'hen loud 
bursts of laughter and incoherent songs, pealing through the 
triple doors of hall and ante-room, startled my ear and pierced 
my aching temples; Milicent partly shared my feelings ; so that, 
to us, the evening appeared a very long one, in spite of Har- 
grave’s apparently good-natured exertions to give it a contrary 
effect. 

At last, they came ; but not till after ten, when tea, which had 
been delayed for more than half an hour, was nearly over. 
Much as 1 had longed for their coming, my heart failed me at 
the riotous uproar of their approach ; and Milicent turned pale 
and almost started from her seat as Mr. Hattersley burst into 
the room with a clamorous volley of oaths in his mouth, which 


232 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


Hargrave endeavored to check by entreating him to remember 
the ladies. 

“ Ah ! you do well to remind me of the ladies, you dastardly 
deserter,” cried he, shaking his formidable fist at his brother-in- 
law ; “ if it were not for them, you well know I’d demolish you 
in the twinkling of an eye, and give your body to the fowls of 
heaven and the lilies of the field !” Then, planting a chair by 
Lady Lowborough’s side, he stationed himself in it, "and began 
to talk to her, with a mixture of absurdity and rascally impu- 
dence, that seemed rather to amuse than to offend her ; though 
she affected to resent his insolence, and to keep him at bay with 
sallies of smart and spirited repartee. 

Meantime, Mr. Grimsby seated himself by me, in the chair 
vacated by Hargrave as they entered, and gravely stated that he 
would thank me for a cup of tea : and Arthur placed himself 
beside poor Milicent, confidentially pushing his head into her 
face, and drawing in closer to her as she shrunk away from him. 
He was not so noisy as Hattersley, but his face was exceedingly 
flushed ; he laughed incessantly, and while I blushed for all I 
saw and heard of him, I was glad that he chose to talk to his 
companion in so low a tone that no one could hear what he said 
but herself. It must have been intolerable nonsense, at best, for 
she looked excessively annoyed, and first went red in the face, 
then indignantly pushed back her chair, and finally took refuge 
behind me on the sofa. Arthur’s sole intention seemed to have 
been to produce some such disagreeable effects : he laughed im- 
moderately on finding he had driven her away ; drawing in his 
chair to the table, he leaned his folded arms upon it, and deliv- 
ered himself up to a paroxysm of weak, low, foolish laughter. 
When he was tired of this exercise, he lifted his head and called 
aloud to Hattersley, and there ensued a clamorous contest be- 
tween them, about I know not what. 

“ What fools they are !” drawled Mr. Grimsby, who had been 
talking away, at my elbow, with sententious gravity all the time; 
but I had been too much absorbed in contemplating the de- 
plorable state of the other two — especially Arthur — to attend 
to him. 

“ Did you ever hear such nonsense as they talk, Mrs. Hun- 
tingdon he continued. “ I’m quite ashamed of them, for my 
part ; they can’t take so much as a bottle between them without 
its getting into their heads — ” 

“ You are pouring the cream into your saucer, Mr. Grimsby.” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


233 


“ All ! yes, I see, but we’re almost in darkness here. Har- 
grave, snufF those candles, will you 1” 

“ They’re wax ; they don’t require snuffing,” said I. 

‘ The light of the body is the eye,’ ” observed Hargrave, 
with a sarcastic smile. “ ‘ If thine eye be single thy whole 
body shall be full of light.’ ” 

Grimsby repulsed him with a solemn wave of the hand, and 
then turning to me, continued, with the same drawling tones, 
and strange uncertainty of utterance and heavy gi'avity of 
aspect as before, “ But, as I was ’saying, Mrs. Huntingdon, 
they have no head at all : they can’t take half a bottle without 
being affected some way ; whereas I — well, I’ve taken three 
times as much as they have to-night, and you see I’m perfectly 
steady. Now that may strike you as very singular, but I think 
I can explain it : you see tJieir brains — I mention no names, 
but you’ll understand to whom I allude — their brains are light 
to begin with, and the fumes of the fermented liquor render 
them lighter still, and produce an entire light-headedness, or 
giddiness, resulting in intoxication ; whereas my brains being 
composed of more solid materials, will absorb a considerable 
quantity of this alcoholic vapor without the production of any 
sensible result — ” 

“ I think you will find a sensible result produced on that tea,” 
interrupted Mr. Hargrave, “ by the quantity of sugar you have 
put into it. Instead of your usual complement of one lump 
you have put in six.” 

“ Have I so replied the philosopher, diving with his spoon 
into the cup and bringing up several half-dissolved pieces in 
confirmation of the assertion. “ Um ! I perceive. Thus, mad- 
am, you see the evil of absence of mind — of thinking too much 
while engaged in the common concerns of life. Now if I had 
had my wits about me, like ordinary men, instead of within me 
like a philosopher, I should not have spoiled this cup of tea, 
and been constrained to trouble you for another. With your 
permission. I’ll turn this into the slop-basin.” 

“ That is the sugar-basin, Mr. Grimsby. Now you have 
spoiled the sugar, too ; and I’ll thank you to ring for some 
more — for here is Lord Lowborough, at last ; and I hope his 
lordship will condescend to sit down with us, such as we are, 
and allow me to give him some tea.” 

His lordship gravely bowed in answer to my appeal, but 
said nothing. Meantime, Hargrave volunteered to ring for the 


234 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


sugar, while Grimsby lamented his mistake, and attempted to 
prove that it was owing to the shadow of the ura and the bad- 
ness of the lights. 

Lord Lowborough had entered a minute or two before, un- 
observed by any one but me, and been standing before the 
door, grimly surveying the company. He now stepped up to 
Annabella, who sat with her back toward him, with Hattersley 
still beside her, though not now attending to her, being occupied 
in vociferously abusing and bullying his host. 

“ Well, Annabella,” said her husband, as he leaned over the 
back of her chair, “ which of these three ‘ bold, manly spirits’ 
would you have me to resemble 

“ By heaven and earth, you shall resemble us all !” cried 
Hattersley, starting up and rudely seizing him by the arm. 
“ Hallo, Huntingdon !” he shouted, “ I’ve got him ! Come, 
man, and help me ! And d — n me, body and soul, if I don’t 
make him blind drunk before I let him go ! He shall make up 
for all past delinquencies, as sure as I’m a living soul !” 

There followed a disgraceful contest ; Lord Lowborough, 
in desperate earaest, and pale with anger, silently struggling to 
release himself from the powerful madman that was striving to 
diag him from the room. I attempted to urge Arthur to inter- 
fere in behalf of his outraged guest, but he could do nothing 
but laugh. 

“ Huntingdon, you fool, come and help me, can’t you !” 
cried Hattersley, himself somewhat weakened by his excesses. 

“ I’m wishing you God-speed, Hattersley,” cried Arthur, 
“ and aiding you with my prayers : I can’t do any thing else if 
my life depended on it ! I’m quite used up. Oh, ho !” and 
leaning back in his seat, he clapped his hands on his sides and 
groaned aloud. 

“ Annabella, give me a candle !” said Lowborough, whose 
antagonist had now got him round the waist, and was endeavor- 
ing to root him from the door-post, to which he madly clung 
with all the energy of desperation. 

“ I shall take no part in your rude sports !” replied the lady, 
coldly drawing back, “ I wonder you can expect it.” 

But I snatched up a candle and brought it to him. He took it 
and held the flame to Hattersley’s hands till, roaring like a wild 
beast, the latter unclasped them and let him go. He vanished, 
I suppose to his own apartment, for nothing more was seen of 
him till the morning. Swearing and cursing like a maniac. 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


235 


Hattersley threw himself on to the ottoman beside the window. 
The door being now free, Milicent attempted to make her 
escape from the scene of her husband’s disgrace ; but he called 
her back, and insisted upon her coming to him. 

“ What do you want, Ralph murmured she, reluctantly 
approaching him. 

“ I want to know what’s the matter with you,” said he, pulling 
her on to his knee like a child. What are you crying for, Mili- 
cent ] Tell me!” 

“I’m not crying.” 

“ You are,” persisted he, rudely pulling her hands from her 
face. “ How dare you tell such a lie 1” 

“ I’m not crying now,” pleaded she. 

“ But you have been — and just this minute too ; and I will 
know what for. Come now, you shall tell me.” 

“ Do let me alone, Ralph ! Remember that we are not at 
home.” 

“ No matter 1 you shall answer my question,” exclaimed her 
tormentor ; and he attempted to extort the confession by shaking 
her and remorsely crushing her slight arms in the giipe of his 
powerful fingers. 

“ Don’t let him treat your sister in that way,” said I to Mr. 
Hargrave. 

“Come now, Hattersley, I can’t allow that,” said that gentle- 
man, stepping up to the ill-assorted couple. “ You let my sister 
alone, if you please.” And he made an effort to unclasp the 
ruffian’s fingers from her arm, but was suddenly driven back- 
ward and nearly laid upon the floor by a violent blow in the 
chest, accompanied with the admonition — 

“Take that for your insolence — and learn to interfere be- 
tween me and mine again.” 

“ If you were not beastly drunk, I’d have satisfaction for 
that,” gasped Hargrave, white and breathless as much from 
passion as from the immediate effects of the blow. 

“Go to the devil!” responded his brother-in-law. “Now 
Milicent, tell me what you were crying for.” 

“ I’ll tell you some other time,” murmured she, “ when we 
are alone.” 

“ Tell me now,” said he with another shake and a squeeze 
that made her draw in her breath and bite her lip to suppress a 
cry of pain. 

“ ril tell you, Mr. Hattersley,” said I. “ She was crying 


23G 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


from pure shame and humiliation for you; because she could 
not bear to see you conduct yourself so disgracefully.” 

“ Confound you, Madam !” muttered he, with a stare of stupid 
amazement at my “ impudence;” “ it was not that — was it, Mil 
icent '1” 

She was silent. 

“ Come, speak up, child.” 

“ I can’t tell now,” sobbed she. 

“ But you can say ‘ yes ’ or ‘ no ’ as well as ‘ I can’t tell ’ — • 
come !” 

“ Yes,” she whispered, hanging her head and blushing at the 
awful acknowledgment. 

“ Curse you for an impertinent huzzy, then,” cried he throw- 
ing her from him with such violence that she fell on her side ; 
but she was up again before either I or her brother could come 
to her assistance, and made the best of her way out of the room 
and, I suppose, up-stairs, without loss of time. 

The next object of assault was Arthur, who sat opposite, and 
had no doubt richly enjoyed the whole scene. 

“ Now Huntingdon,” exclaimed his irascible friend, “ I will 
NOT have you sitting there and laughing like an idiot.” 

“ Oh, Hattersley !” cried he, wiping his swimming eyes — 
“ you’ll be the death of me.” 

“ Yes, I will, but not as you suppose. I’ll have the heart out 
of your body, man, if you irritate me with any more of that 
imbecile laughter. What ! are you at it yet 1 — There ! see if 
that will settle you,” cried Hattersley, snatching up a footstool 
and Jiurling it at the head of his host ; but he missed his aim, 
and the latter still sat collapsed and quaking with feeble laugh- 
ter, with the tears running down his face ; a deplorable specta- 
cle indeed. 

Hattersley tried cursing and swearing, but it would not do ; 
he then took a number of books from the table beside him and 
threw them, one by one, at the object of his wrath, but Arthur 
only laughed the more; and, finally, Hattersley rushed upon 
him in a phrensy, and, seizing him by the shoulders, gave him a 
violent shaking, under which he laughed and shrieked alarm- 
ingly. But I saw no more ; I thought I had witnessed enough 
of my husband’s degradation; and, leaving Annabella and the 
rest to follow when they pleased, I withdrew — but not to bed. 
Dismissing Rachel to her rest, I walked up and down my room 
in an agony of misery, for what had been done, and suspense, 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


237 


not knowing what might further happen, or how or when that 
unhappy creature would come up to bed. 

At last he came, slowly and stumblingly ascending the stairs, 
supported by Grimsby and Hattersley, who neither of them 
walked quite steadily themselves, but were both laughing and 
joking at him, and making noise enough for all the servants to 
hear. He himself was no longer laughing now, but sick and 
stupid. — I will write no more about that. 

Such disgraceful scenes (or nearly such) have been repeated 
more than once. I don’t say much to Arthur about it ; for if I 
did, it would do more harm than good ; but I let him know that 
I intensely dislike such exhibitions ; and each time he has prom- 
ised they should never again be repeated ; but I fear he is losing, 
the little self-command and self-respect he once possessed. For 
merly, he would have been ashamed to act thus — at least, before 
any other witnesses than his boon companions, or such as they. 
His friend, Hargrave, with a prudence and self-government that 
I envy for him, never disgraces himself by taking more than 
sufficient to render him a little “ elevated,” and is always the 
first to leave the table, after Lord Lowborough, who, wiser ^still, 
perseveres in vacating the dining-room immediately after us; 
but never once, since Annabella offended him so deeply, has he 
entered the drawing room before the rest ; always spending the 
interim in the library, which I take care to have lighted for his 
accommodation, or, on fine moonlight nights, in roaming about 
the grounds. But I think she regrets her misconduct, for she 
has never repeated it since, and of late she has comported her- 
self with wonderful propriety toward him, treating him with 
more uniform kindness and consideration than ever I have ob- 
served her to do before. I date the time of this improvement 
from the period when she ceased to hope and strive for Arthur’s 
admiration. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

COMPARISONS : INFORMATION REJECTED 

October 5 th. — Esther Hargrave is getting a fine girl. She 
13 not out of the school-room yet, but her mother frequently 


238 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


brings her over to call in the mornings when the gentlemen are 
out, and sometimes she spends an hour or two in company with 
her sister, and me, and the children ; and when we go to the 
Grove, I always contrive to see her, and talk more to her than 
to any one else, for I am very much attached to my little friend, 
and so is she to me. I wonder what she can see to like in me, 
though, for I am no longer the happy, lively girl I used to be ; 
but she has no other society — save that of her uncongenial 
mother, and her governess (as artificial and conventional a person 
as that prudent mother could procure to rectify the pupil’s nat- 
ural qualities), and, now and then, her subdued, quiet sister. 
I often wonder what will be her lot in life — and so does she ; 
but her speculations on the future are full of buoyant hope — so 
were mine once. I shudder to think of her being awakened 
like me to a sense of their delusive vanity. It seems as if 1 
should feel her disappointment even more deeply than my own : 
I feel, almost, as if I were bom for such a fate, but she is so joy- 
ous and fresh, so light of heart and free of spirit, and so guileless 
and unsuspecting too. Oh, it would be cruel to make her feel 
as I feel now, and know what I have known ! 

Her sister trembles for her too. Yesterday morning, one of 
October’s brightest, loveliest days, Milicent and I were in the 
garden enjoying a brief half-hour together with bur children, 
while Annabella was lying on the drawing-room sofa, deep in 
the last new novel. We had been romping with the little 
creatures, almost as merry and wild as themselves, and now 
paused in the shade of the tall copper beech, to recover breath 
and rectify our hair, disordered by the rough play and the frolic- 
some breeze — while they toddled together along the broad, 
sunny walk; my Arthur supporting the feebler steps of her little 
Helen, and sagaciously pointing out to her the brightest beauties 
of the border as they passed, with semi-articulate prattle that 
did as well for her as any other mode of discourse. From laugh- 
ing at the pretty sight, we began to talk of the children’s future 
life ; and that made us thoughtful. We both relapsed into 
silent musing as we slowly proceeded up the walk ; and I sup- 
pose Milicent by a train of associations was led to think of her 
sister. 

“ Helen,” said she, “ you often see Esther, don’t you.” 

“Not very often.” 

“ But you have more frequent opportunities of meeting her 
than I have: and she loves you, 1 know, and reverences you 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


239 


too ; there is nobody’s opinion she thinks so much of ; and she 
says you have more sense than mamma.” 

“ That is because she is self-willed, and my opinions more 
generally coincide with her own than your mamma’s. But what 
then, Milicent 

“ Well, since you have so much influence with her, I wish 
you would seriously impress it upon her, never, on any account, 
or for any body’s persuasion, to marry for the sake of money, or 
rank, or establishment, or any earthly thing, but true affection 
and well-grounded esteem.” 

“ There is no necessity for that,” said I ; “ for we have had 
some discourse on that subject already, and I assure you her 
ideas of love and matrimony are as romantic as any one could 
desire.” 

“ But romantic notions will not do ; I want her to have true 
notions.” 

“ Very right, but in my judgment, what the world stigmatizes 
as romantic, is often more nearly allied to the truth than is com- 
monly supposed ; for, if the generous ideas of youth are too 
often overclouded by the sordid views of after-life, that scarcely 
proves them to be false.” 

“ Well, but if you think her ideas are what they ought to be, 
strengthen them, will you ] and confirm them, as far as you 
can ; for I had romantic notions once, and — I don’t mean to say 
that I regret my lot, for I am quite sure I don’t — but — ” 

“I understand you,” said I; “you are contented for youf 
self, but you would not have your sister to suffer the same as 
you.” 

“ No — or worse. She might have far worse to suffer than I 
— for I am really contented, Helen, though you mayn’t think it; 
I speak the solemn truth in saying that I would not exchange 
my husband for any man on earth, if I might do it by the pluck- 
ing of this leaf.” 

“Well, I believe you; now that you have him, you would 
not exchange him for another; but then you would gladly 
exchange some of his qualities for those of better men.” 

“Yes; just as I would gladly exchange some of my own 
qualities for those of better women ; for neither he nor I are 
perfect, and I desire his improvement as earnestly as my own. 
And he will improve — don’t you think so, Helen he’s only six 
and twenty yet.” 

“ He may,” I answered. 


240 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ He will — he will !” repeated she. 

“ Excuse the faintness of my acquiescence, Milicent ; I would 
not discourage your hopes for the world, but mine have been so 
often disappointed, that I am become as cold and doubtful in 
my expectations as the flattest of octogenarians.” 

“ And yet you do hope, still — even for Mr. Huntingdon 

“ I do, I confess^ — ‘ even’ for him ; for it seems as if life and 
hope must cease together. And is he so much worse, Milicent, 
than Mr. Hattersley 

“ Well, to give you my candid opinion, I think there is no 
comparison between them. But you mustn’t be offended, Hel- 
en, for you know I always speak my mind ; and you may speak 
yours, too ; I shan’t care.” 

“ 1 am not offended, love ; and my opinion is, that if there he. 
a comparison made between the two, the difference, for the 
most part, is certainly in Hattersley’s favor.” 

Milicent’s own heart told her how much it cost me to make 
this acknowledgment ; and, with a childlike impulse, she ex- 
pressed her sympathy by suddenly kissing my cheek, without a 
word of reply, and then, turning quickly away, caught up her 
baby, and hid her face in its frock. How odd it is that we so 
often weep for each other’s distresses, when we shed not a tear 
for our own ! Her heart had been full enough of her own sor- 
rows, but it overflowed at the idea of mine ; and I, too, shed 
tears at the sight of her sympathetic emotion, though I had not 
wept for myself for many a week. 

But Milicent’s satisfaction in her choice is not entirely feigned : 
she really loves her husband ; and it is too true, that he loses 
nothing by comparison with mine. Either he is less unbridled 
in his excesses, or, owing to his stronger, hardier frame, they 
produce a much less deleterious effect upon him ; for he never 
reduces himself to a state in any degree bordering on imbecility, 
and with him the worst effect of a night’s debauch is a slight in- 
crease of irascibility, or it may be a season of sullen ferocity on 
the following morning : there is nothing of that lost, depressing 
appearance — that peevish, ignoble fretfulness, that wears one 
out with very shame for the transgressor. But then, it was not 
formerly so with Arthur : he can bear less now than he could at 
Hattersley’s age ; and if the latter does not reform, his powers 
of endurance may be equally impaired when he has tried them 
as long. He has five years the advantage of his friend, and his 
vices have not mastered him yet : he has not folded them to him, 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


241 


and made them a part of himself. They seem to sit loose upon 
him, like a cloak, that he could throw aside at any moment, if 
he would — but how long will that option be left him ] Though 
a creature of passion and sense, regardless of the duties and the 
higher privileges of intelligent beings, he is no voluptuary : he 
prefers the more active and invigorating animal enjoyments, to 
those of a more relaxing, enervating kind. He does not make 
a science of the gratification of his appetites either in the pleas- 
ures of the table or any thing else ; he eats heartily what is set 
before him, without demeaning himself by any of that abandon- 
ment to the palate and the eye — that unbecoming particularity 
in approval or disapproval, which it is so hateful to witness in 
those we would esteem. Arthur, I fear, would give himself up 
to luxury as the chief good, and might ultimately plunge into the 
grossest excesses, but for the fear of irremediably blunting his 
appetites, and destroying his powers of further enjoyment. For 
Hattersley, graceless ruffian as he is, I believe there is more 
reasonable ground of hope ; and — far be it from me to blame 
poor Milicent for his delinquencies — but I do think, that if she 
had the courage or the will to speak her mind about them, and 
maintain her point unflinchingly, there would be more chance of 
his reclamation, and he would be likely to treat her better, and 
love her more, in the end. I am partly led to think so by what 
he said to me himself, not many days ago. I purpose to give 
her a little advice on the subject some time ; but still, I hesitate 
from the consciousness that her ideas and . disposition are both 
against it, and if my counsels failed to do good, they would do 
harm by making her more unhappy. 

It was one rainy day last week : most of the company were 
killing time in the billiard-room, but Milicent and I were with 
little Arthur and Helen in the library, and between our books, 
our children, and each other, we expected to make out a very 
agreeable morning. We had not been thus secluded above two 
hours, however, when Mr. Hattersley came in, attracted, I sup- 
pose, by the voice of his child as he was crossing the hall, for he 
is prodigiously fond of her, and she of him. 

He was redolent of the stables, where he had been regaling 
himself with the company of his fellow-creatures, the horses, 
ever since breakfast. But that was no matter to my little name- 
sake ; as soon as the colossal person of her father darkened the 
door, she uttered a shrill scream of delight, and, quitting her 
mother’s side, ran crowing toward him — balancing her course 


242 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


with outstretched arms — and, embracing his knee, threw back 
her head and laughed in his face. He might well look smiling- 
ly down upon those small, fair features, radiant with innocent 
mirth ; those clear, blue, shining eyes, and that soft flaxen hair, 
cast back upon the little ivory neck and shoulders. Did he not 
think how unworthy he was of such a possession 1 I fear no 
such idea crossed his mind. He caught her up, and there fol- 
lowed some minutes of very rough play, during which it is diffi- 
cult to say whether the father or the daughter laughed and 
shouted the loudest. At length, however, the boisterous pastime 
-» terminated — suddenly, as might be expected : the little one was 
hurt and began to cry, and its ungentle playfellow tossed it into 
its mother’s lap, bidding her “ make all straight.” As happy to 
return to that gentle comforter as it had been to leave her, the 
child npstled in her arms, and hushed its cries in a moment ; 
and, sinking its little weary head on her bosom, soon dropped 
asleep. 

Meantime, Mr. Hattersley strode up to the fii'e, and, inter- 
posing his height and breadth between us and it, stood, with 
arms akimbo, expanding his chest, and gazing round him as if 
the house and all its appurtenances and contents were his own 
undisputed possessions. 

“ Deuced bad weather this !” he began. “ There’ll be no 
shooting to-day, I guess.” Then, suddenly lifting up his voice, 
he regaled us with a few bars of a rollicking song, which 
abruptly ceasing, he finished the tune with a whistle, and then 
continued — “ I say, Mrs. Huntingdon, what a fine stud your 
husband has ! — not large but good. I’ve been looking at them 
a bit this morning; and upon my word. Black Bess, and Gray 
Tom, and that young Nimrod, are the finest animals I’ve seen 
for many a day !” Then follow'ed a particular discussion of 
their various merits, succeeded by a sketch of the great things 
he intended to do in the horse jockey line when his old gover- 
nor thought proper to quit the stage — “ Not that I wish him to 4 
close his accounts,” added he ; “ the old Trojan is welcome to 
keep his books open as long as he pleases for me.” 

“ I hope so, indeed, Mr. Hattersley !” 

“ Oh yes ! It’s only my way c\f talking. The event must 
come, sometime, and so I look to the bright side of it — that’s 
the right plan, isn’t it, Mrs. H. 1 — What are you two doing 
here ? By-the-by — where’s Lady Lowb'orough ]” 

“ In the billiard room,” 


TEIE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


24S 


“ What a splendid creature she is.'” continued he, fixing his 
eyes on his wife, who changed color, and looked more and 
more disconcerted as he proceeded. “ What a noble figure she 
has ! and what magnificent black eyes ; and what a fine spirit 
of her own ; and what a tongue of her own, too, when she likes 
to use it — I perfectly adore her ! — But never mind, Milicent ; 
I would’nt have her for my wife — not if she’d a kingdom for 
her dowry ! I’m better satisfied with the one T have. — Now 
then ! what do you look so sulky for % don’t you believe me V’ 

“ Yes, I believe you,” murmured she, in a tone of half sad, 
half sullen resignation, as she turned away to stroke the hair of . 
her sleeping infant, that she had laid on the sofa beside her. 

“ Well then, what makes you so cross ] Come here Milly, 
and tell me why you can’t be satisfied with my assurance.” 

She went, and putting her little hand within his arm, looked 
up in his face, and said softly — 

“ What does it amount to Ralph ! Only to this, that though 
you admire Annabella so much, and for qualities that I don’t 
possess, you would still rather have me than her for your wife, 
which merely proves that you don’t think it necessary to love 
your wife : you are satisfied if she can keep your house and 
take care of your child. But I’m not cross; I’m only sorry ; 
for,” added she in a low, tremulous accent, withdrawing hei 
hand from his arm, and bending her looks on the rug, “ if you 
don’t love me, you don’t, and it can’t be helped.” 

“ Very true : but who told you I didn’t] Did I say I loved 
Annabella ]” 

“You said you adored her.” 

“ True, but adoration isn’t love. I adore Annabella, but I 
don’t love her; and I love thee, Milicent, but I don’t adore thee.” 
In proof of his affection, he clutched a handful of her light 
brown ringlets and appeared to twist them unmercifully. 

“ Do you really, Ralph ]” murmured she, with a faint smile 
beaming through her tears, just putting up her hand to his, in 
token that he pulled rather too hard. 

“ To be sure I do,” responded he : “ only you bother me, 
rather, sometimes.” 

“ 1 bother you !” cried she in very natural surprise. 

“Yes, you — but only by your exceeding goodness — when a 
boy has been cramming raisins and sugar-plums all day, he 
longs for a squeeze of sour orange by way of a change. And did 
you never, Milly, observe the sands on the sea-shore ; how nice 


244 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


and smooth they look, and how soft and easy they feel to the 
foot 'I But if you plod along, for half an hour, over this soft, easy 
carpet — giving way at every step, yielding the more the harder 
you press — you’ll find it rather wearisome work, and be glad 
enough to come to a bit of good, firm rock, that won’t budge 
an inch, whether you stand, walk, or stamp upon it ; and, 
though it be hard as the nether millstone, you’ll find it easier 
footing, after all.” 

“ I know what you mean, Ralph,” said she, nervously playing 
with her watch-guard and tracing the figure on the rug with the 
point of her tiny foot, “ I know what you mean, but I thought 
you always liked to be yielded to ; and I can’t alter now.” 

“ I do like it,” replied he, bringing her to him by another tug 
at her hair. “ You mustn’t mind my talk, Milly. A man must 
have something to grumble about ; and if he can’t complain that 
his wife harries him to death with her perversity and ill-humor, 
he must complain that she wears him out with her kindness 
and gentleness.” 

“ But why complain at all, unless, because you are tired and 
dissatisfied V’ 

“ To excuse my own failings, to be sure. Do you think I’ll 
bear all the burden of my sins on my own shoulders, as long as 
there’s another ready to help me, with none of her own to 
carry 1” 

“ There is no such one on earth,” said she seriously j and 
then, taking his hand from her head, she kissed it with an air of 
genuine devotion, and tripped away to the door. 

“ What now V’ said he. “ Where are you going V’ 

“ To tidy my hair,” she answered, smiling through her dis- 
ordered locks ; “ you’ve made it all come down.” 

“ Off with you, then ! An excellent little woman,” he re- 
marked when she was gone, “ but a thought too soft — she al- 
most melts in one’s hands. I positively think I ill-use her 
sometimes, when I’ve taken too much ; but I can’t help it, for 
she never complains, either at the time or after. I suppose she 
doesn’t mind it.” 

“ I can enlighten you on that subject, Mr. Hattersley,” said 
I : “ she does mind it ; and some other things she minds still 
more, which yet you may never hear her complain of” 

“ How do you know 1 does she complain to you 1” demanded 
he, with a sudden spark of fury, ready to burst into a flame if I 
“‘should answer “ Yes.” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


245 


“ No,” I replied ; “ but I have known her longer and studied 
her more closely than you have done. And I can tell you, 
Mr. Hattersley, that Milicent loves you more than you deserve, 
and that you have it in your power to make her very happy, 
instead of which you are her evil genius, and, I will venture to 
say, there is not a single day passes in which you do not inflict 
upon her some pang that you might spare her if you would.” 

“ Well, it’s not my fault,” said he, gazing carelessly up at 
the ceiling, and plunging his hands into his pockets ; “ if my 
ongoings don’t suit her, she should tell me so.” 

“ Is she not exactly the wife you wanted ] Did you not tell 
^ Mr. Huntingdon you must have one that would submit to any 
thing without a murmur, and never blame you, whatever you 
did]” 

“ True, but we shouldn’t always have what we want : it 
spoils the best of us, doesn’t it] How can I help playing the 
deuce when I see it’s all one to her, whether I behave like a 
Christian, or like a scoundrel such as nature made me ] And 
how can I help teasing her when she’s so invitingly meek and 
mim — when she lies down like a spaniel at my feet, and never 
so much as squeaks to tell me that’s enough ]” 

“ If you are a tyrant by nature, the temptation is strong, I 
allow ; but no generous mind delights to oppress the weak, but 
rather to cherish and protect.” 

“ I don't oppress her ; but it’s so confounded flat to be always 
cherishing and protecting. And then, how can I tell that I am 
oppressing her, when she ‘ melts away and makes no sign ]’ I 
sometimes think she has no feeling at all; and then 1 go on till 
she cries, and that satisfies me.” 

“ Then you do delight to oppress her]” 

“ I don’t, I tell you ! — only when I’m in a bad humor, or a 
particularly good one, and want to afflict for the pleasure ot 
comforting, or when she looks flat and wants shaking up a bit. 
And sometimes she provokes me by crying for nothing, and 
won’t tell me what it’s for; and then, I allow, it enrages me 
past bearing — especially, when I’m not my own man.” 

“ As is no doubt generally the case on such occasions,” said 
I. “ But in future, Mr. Hattersley, when you see her looking 
flat, or crying for ‘ nothing,’ as you call it, ascribe it all to your- 
self; be assured it is something you have done amiss, or your 
general misconduct, that distresses her.” 

“ I don’t believe it. If it were, she should tell me so ; I don’t 


246 


THE TENANT OF VVILDFELL HALL. 


like that way of moping and fretting in silence, and saying 
nothing — it’s not honest. How can she expect me to mend my 
ways at that rate 

“ Perhaps she gives you credit for having more sense than 
you possess, and deludes herself with the hope that you will 
one day see your own errors and repair them, if left to your 
own reflection.” 

“ None of your sneers, Mrs. Huntingdon ! I have the sense 
to see that I’m not always quite correct ; but sometimes I think 
that’s no great matter, as long as I injure nobody but myself — ” 

“ It is a great matter,” interrupted I, “ both to yourself (as you 
-will hereafter find to your cost), and to all connected with you — 
most especially your wife. But, indeed, it is nonsense to talk * 
about injuring no one but yourself; it is impossible to injure 
yourself, especially by such acts as you allude to, without injuring 
hundreds, if not thousands besides, in a greater or less degree, 
either by the evil you do or the good you leave undone.” 

“ And as I was saying,” continued he, “ or would have said, 
if you hadn’t taken me up so short — I sometimes think I should 
do better if I were joined to one that would always remind me 
when I was wrong, and give me a motive for doing good and 
eschewing evil, by decidedly showing her approval of the one, 
and disapproval of the other.” 

“ If you had no higher motive than the approval of your fel- 
low mortal, it would do you little good.” 

“ Well, but if I had a mate that would not always be yield- 
ing and always equally kind, but that would have the spirit to 
stand at bay now and then, and honestly tell me her mind at all 
times — such a one as yourself, for instance. Now if I went on 
with you as I do with her when I’m in London, you’d make 
the house too hot to hold me, at times. I’ll be sworn.” 

“ You mistake me : I’m no termagant.” 

“ Well, all the better for that, for I can’t stand contradiction 
— in a general way — and I’m as fond of my own will as another : 
only I think too much of it doesn’t answer for any man.” 

“ Well, I would never contradict you without a cause, but 
certainly I would always let you know what I thought of your 
conduct; and if you oppressed me, in body, mind, or estate, 
you should at least have no reason to suppose ‘ I didn’t mind it.’ ” 

“ I know that, my lady ; and I think if my little wife were 
to follow the same plan it would be better for us both.” 

“ I’ll tell her.” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HAL].. 


247 


“ No, no, let her be ; there’s much to be said on both sides — 
and, now I think upon it, Huntingdon often regrets that you 
are not more like her — scoundrelly dog that he is — and you see, 
after all, you can’t reform him ; he’s ten times worse than I. 
He’s afraid of you, to be sure — that is, he’s always on his best 
behavior in your presence — but — ” 

“ I wonder what his worst behavior is like, then I” I could 
not forbear observing. 

“ Why, to tell you the truth, it’s very bad indeed — isn’t it, 
Hargrave]” said he, addressing that gentleman, who had en- 
tered the room unperceived by me, for I was now standing 
near the fire with my back to the door. “ Isn’t Huntingdon,” 
he continued, “ as great a reprobate as ever was d — d ]” 

“ His lady will not hear him censured with impunity,” re- 
plied Mr. Hargrave, coming forward, “ but I must say, I thank 
God I am not such an other.” 

“ Perhaps it would become you better,” said I, “ to look at 
what you are, and say, ‘ God be merciful to me a sinner.’” 

“You are severe,” returned he, bowing slightly, and draw- 
ing himself up with a proud yet injured air. Hattersley laugh- 
ed, and clapped him on the shoulder. Moving from under his 
hand with a gesture of insulted dignity, Mr. Hargi’ave took 
himself away to the other end of the rug. 

“ Isn’t it a shame, Mrs. Huntingdon ]” ciied his brother-in-law. 
“I struck Walter Hargrave when I was drunk, the second 
night after we came, and he’s turned a cold shoulder on me 
ever since ; though I asked his pardon the very morning after 
it was done !” 

“ Your manner of asking it,” returned the other, “ and the 
clearness with which you remembered the whole transaction, 
showed you were not too drunk to be fully conscious of what 
you were about, and quite responsible for the deed.” 

“ You wanted to interfere between me and my wife,” grum- 
bled Hattersley, “ and that is enough to provoke any man.” 

“You justify it then]” said his opponent, darting upon him 
a most vindictive glance. 

“ No, I tell you, I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t been under 
excitement; and if you choose to bear malice for it, after all 
the handsome things I’ve said — do so, and be damned!” 

J would refrain from such language in a lady’s presence, at 
least,” said Mr. Hargrave, hiding his anger under a mask of 
disgust. 


248 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“What have I said I” returned Hatlersley, “nothing but 
Heaven’s truth — he will be damned, won’t he, Mrs. Hunting- 
don, if he doesn’t forgive his brother’s trespasses 1” 

“ You ought to forgive him, Mr. Hargrave, since he asks you,” 
said I. 

“ Do you say so 1 Then I will !” And, smiling almost 
frankly, he stepped forward and offered his hand. It w’as im- 
mediately clasped in that of his relative, and the reconciliation 
was apparently cordial on both sides. 

“ The affront,” continued Hargrave, turning to me, “ owed 
half its bitterness to the fact of its being offered in your pres- 
ence ; and since you bid me forgive it, I will — and forget it 
too.” 

“ I guess the best return I can make, will be to take myself 
off,” muttered Hattersley, with a broad grin. His companion 
smiled ; and he left the room. This put me on my guard. Mr. 
Hargrave turned seriously to me, and earnestly began — 

“ Dear Mrs. Huntingdon, how I have longed for, yet dreaded 
this hour! Do not be alarmed,” he added, for my face was 
crimson with anger; “I am not about to offend you with any 
useless entreaties or complaints. I am not going to presume to 
trouble you with the mention of my own feelings or your per- 
fections, but I have something to reveal to you which you ought 
to know, and which, yet, it pains me inexpressibly — ” 

“ Then don’t trouble yourself to reveal it !” 

“ But it is of importance — ” 

“ If so, I shall hear it soon enough — especially if it is bad 
news, as you seem to consider it. At present I am going to 
take the children to the nursery.” 

“ But can’t you ring, and send them V* 

“ No ; I want the exercise of a run to the top of the house. 
Come, Arthur.” 

“ But you will return 1” 

“Not yet; don’t wait.” 

“,Then, when may I see you again I” 

“ At lunch,” said I, departing with little Helen on one arm, 
and leading Arthur by the hand. 

He turned away, muttering some sentence of impatient cen- 
sure or complaint, in which “ heartless” was the only distinguish- 
able word. 

“What nonsense is this, Mr. Hargrave said, I pausing in 
the doorway. “ What do you mean I” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


249 


“ Oh, nothing — I did not intend you should hear ray solilo- 
quy. But the fact is, Mrs. Huntingdon, I have a disclosure to 
raake — painful for me to offer as for you to hear — and I want 
you to give rae a few minutes of your attention in private, at 
any time and place you like to appoint.* It is from no selfish 
motive that I ask it, and not from any cause that could alai-m your 
super-human purity ; therefore you need not kill me with that 
look of cold and pitiless disdain. I know too well the feelings 
with which the bearers of bad tidings are commonly regarded, 
not to — ” 

“What is this wonderful piece of intelligence!” said I, im- 
patiently interrupting him. “ If it is any thing of real importance, 
speak it in three words before I go.” 

“ In three words I can not. Send those children aw^ay, and 
stay with me.” 

“No; keep your bad tidings to yourself. I know it is 
something I don’t want to hear, and something you would dis- 
please me by telling.” 

“You have divined too truly, I fear; but still since I know 
it, I feel it my duty to disclose it to you.” 

“ Oh, spare us both the infliction — and I will exonerate you 
from the duty. You have offered to tell ; I have refused to 
hear : my ignorance will not be charged on you.” 

“ Be it so — you shall not hear it from me. But if the blow 
fall too suddenly upon you when it comes, remember I wished 
to soften it !” 

I left him. I was determined his words should not alarm me. 
What could he of all men, have to reveal that was of importance 
for me to hear ! It was, no doubt, some exaggerated tale about 
my unfortunate husband, that he wished to make the most of to 
serve his own bad purposes. 

6th. — He has not alluded to this momentous mystery since ; 
and I have seen no reason to repent of my unwillingness to 
hear it. The threatened blow has not been struck yet ; and I 
do not greatly fear it. At present I am pleased with Arthur : 
he has not positively disgraced himself for upwards of a fort- 
night, and all this last week, has been so very moderate in his 
indulgence at table, that I can perceive a marked difference in 
his general temper and appearance. Dare I hope this will 
continue ! 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

. TWO EVENINGS. 

Seventh. — Yes, I will hope ! To-night, I heard Grimsby and 
Hattersley grumbling together, about the inhospitality of their 
host. They did not know I was near, for I happened to be 
standing behind the curtain, in the bow of the window, watch- 
ing the moon rising over the clump of tall, dark elm-trees below 
the lawn, and wondering why Arthur was so sentimental as to 
stand without, leaning against the outer pillar of the portico, 
apparently watching it too. 

“ So, I suppose we’ve seen the last of our merry carousals in 
this house,” said Mr. Hattersley, “ I thought his good-fellow- 
ship wouldn’t last long. But,” added he, laughing, “ I didn’t 
expect it would meet its end this way. I rather thought our 
pretty hostess would be setting up her porcupine quills, and 
threatening to turn us out of the house, if we didn’t mend our 
manners.” 

“You didn’t foresee this, then I ” answered Grimsby, with a 
guttural chuckle. “ But he’ll change again when he’s sick of 
her. If we come here a year or two hence, we shall have all 
our own way, you’ll see.” 

“ I don’t know,” replied the other, “ she’s not the style of 
woman you soon tire of — but be that as it may, it’s devilish 
provoking now, that we can’t be jolly, because he chooses to be 
on his good behavior.” 

“It’s all these cursed women!” muttered Grimsby. “They’re 
the very bane of the world ! They bi-ing trouble and discom- 
fort wherever they come, with their false, fair faces, and their 
d — d deceitful tongues.” 

At this juncture I issued from my retreat, and smiling on 
Mr. Grimsby as I passed', left the room and went out in search 
of Arthur. Having seen him bend his course toward the shmb- 
oery, I followed him thither, and found him just entering the 
shadowy walk. I was so light of heart, so overflowing wuth 
affection, that I sprang upon him and clasped him in my arms. 
This startling conduct had a singular effect upon him : first, he 
murmured, “ Bless you, darling 1” and returned my close em- 
brace with a fervor like old times, and then he started, and in a 
tone of absolute terror, exclaimed — > 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL 


251 


“ Helen ! — What the devil is this !” and I saw, by the faint 
light gleaming through the overshadowing tree, that he was 
positively pale with the shock. 

How strange that the instinctive impulse of affection should 
come first, and then the shock of the surprise ! It shows, at 
least, that the affection is genuine : he is not sick of me yet. 

“ I startled you, Arthur,” said I, laughing in my glee. “How 
nervous you are !” 

“ What the deuce did you do it for V’ cried he, quite testily, 
extricating himself from my arms, and wiping his forehead with 
his handkerchief. “Go back, Helen — go back directly ! You’ll 
get your death of cold !” 

“ I won’t — till I’ve told you what I came for. They are 
blaming you, Arthur, for your temperance and sobriety, and I’m 
come to thank you for it. They say it is all ‘ these cursed 
women,’ and that we are the bane of the world ; but don’t let 
them laugh, or grumble you out of your good resolutions, or 
your affection for me.” 

He laughed. I squeezed him in my arms again, and cried in 
tearful earnest — - 

“ Do — do persevere ! — and I’ll love you better than ever I 
did before V’ 

“Well, well, I will!” said he, hastily kissing me. “ There 
now, go. — You mad creature, how could you come out in your 
light evening dress, this chill autumn night V' 

“ It is a glorious night,” said I. 

“ It is a night that will give you your death, in another min- 
ute. Run away, do !” 

“ Do you see my death among those trees, Arthur ]” said I, 
for he was gazing intently at the shrubs, as if he saw it coming, 
and I was reluctant to leave him, in my new-found happiness 
and revival of hope and love. But he grew angiy at my delay, 
so I kissed him and ran back to the house. 

I was in such good humor that night — Milicent told me I 
was the life of the party, and whispered she had never seen me 
so brilliant. Certainly, I talked enough for twenty, and smiled 
upon them all. Grimsby, Hattersley, Hargrave, Lady Low- 
borough — all shared my sisterly kindness. Grimsby stared and 
wondered ; Hattersley laughed and jested (in spite of the little 
wine he had been suffered to imbibe), but still behaved as well 
as he knew how; Hargrave and Annabella, fi’om different 
motives and in different ways, emulated me, and doubtless both 


252 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


surpassed me, the former in his discursive versatility and elo- 
quence, the latter in boldness and animation at least. Milicent, 
delighted to see her husband, her brother, and her over-estimated 
friend acquitting themselves so well, was lively and gay too, in 
her quiet way. Even Lord Lowborough caught the general 
contagion ; his dark, greenish eyes were lighted up beneath 
their moody brows ; his somber countenance was beautified by 
smiles ; all traces of gloom, and proud or cold reserve had van- 
ished for the time ; and he astonished us all, not only by his 
general cheerfulness and animation, but by the positive flashes 
of true force and brilliancy he emitted from time to time. Ar- 
thur did not talk much, but he laughed, and listened to the rest, 
and was in perfect good humor, though not excited by wine. 
So that, altogether we made a very merry, innocent and enter- 
taining party. 

9th. — Yesterday, when Rachel came to dress me for dinner, 
I saw that she had been crying. I wanted to know the cause 
of it, but she seemed reluctant to tell. Was she unwell 1 No. 
Had she heard bad news from my friends ? No. Had any of 
the servants vexed her ] 

“ Oh, no ma’am !” she answered. “ It’s not for myself.” 

“ What then, Rachel ] Have you been reading novels V* 

“ Bless you, no !” said she with a sorrowful shake of the 
head ; and then she sighed and continued, “ But to tell you the 
truth, ma’am, I don’t like master’s ways of going on.” 

“What do you mean, Rachel ] He is going on very prop- 
erly — at present.” 

“ Well ma’am, if you think so, it’s right.” 

And she went on dressing my hair, in a hurried way, quite 
unlike her usual calm, collected manner, murmuring, half to 
herself, she was sure it was beautiful hair, she “ could like to 
see ’em match it.” When it was done, she fondly stroked it and 
gently patted my head. 

“ Is that affectionate ebullition intended for my hair, or my- 
self, nurse]” said I, laughingly turning round upon her; but a 
tear was even now in her eye. 

“ What do you mean, Rachel ]” I exclaimed. 

“ Well, ma’am, I don’t know — ^but if — ” 

“ If what ]” 

“ Well, if I was you, I wouldn’t have that Lady Lowbor- 
ough in the house another minute — not another minute, I 
wouldn’t !” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


253 


I was thunderstruck; but before I could recover from the 
shock sufficiently to demand an explanation, Milicent entered 
my room — as she frequently does, when she is dressed before 
me ; and she stayed with me till it was time to go down. She 
must have found me a very unsociable companion this time, 
for Rachel’s last words rung in my ears. But still, I hoped — 
I trusted they had no foundation but in some idle rumor of the 
servants, from what they had seen in Lady Lowborough’s man- 
ner last month; or, perhaps, from something that had passed 
between their master and her during her former visit. At din- 
ner, I narrowly observed both her and Arthur, and saw nothing 
extraordinary in the conduct of either — nothing calculated to 
excite suspicion, except in distrustful minds — which mine was 
not, and therefore I would not suspect. 

Almost immediately after dinner, Annabella went out with 
her husband to share his moonlight ramble, for it was a splendid 
evening, like the last. Mr. Hargrave entered the drawing-room 
a little before the others, and challenged me to a game of chess. 
He did it without any of that sad, but proud humility he usually 
assumes in addressing me, unless he is excited with wine. I 
looked at his face to see if that was the case now. His eye 
met mine keenly, but steadily ; there was something about him 
I did not understand, but he seemed sober enough. Not choosing 
to engage with him, I referred him to Milicent. 

“ She plays badly,” said he : “ I want to match my skill with 
yours. Come now ! you can’t pretend you are reluctant to lay 
dowm your work — I know you never take it up except to pass 
an idle hour, when there is nothing better you can do.” 

“ But chess players are so unsociable,” I objected ; “ they 
are no company for any but themselves.” 

“ There is no one here — but Milicent, and she — ” 

“Oh, I shall be delighted to watch you!” cried our mutual 
friend. “ Two such players — it will be quite a treat ! T won- 
der which will conquer.” 

I consented. 

“ Now Mrs. Huntingdon,” said Hargrave, as he arranged the 
men on the board, speaking distinctly, and with a peculiar 
emphasis, as if he had a double meaning to all his words, “ you 
are a good player, but I am a better ; we shall have a long game, 
and you will give me some trouble ; but I can be as patient as 
you, and, in the end, I shall certainly win.” He fixed his eyes 
upon me with a glance I did not like — keen, crafty, bold, and 


254 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


almost impudent ; already half triumphant in his anticipated 
success. 

“ I hope not, Mr. Hargrave !” returned I, with vehemence 
that must have startled Milicent at leasj; ; but he only smiled, 
and murmured — 

“ Time will show.” 

We set to work; he, sufficiently interested in the game, but 
calm and fearless in the consciousness of superior skill ; I, in- 
tensely eager to -disappoint his expectations, for I considered 
this the type of a more serious contest — as I imagined he did — 
and I felt an almost superstitious dread of being beaten ; at all 
events,' I could ill endure that present success should add one 
tittle to his conscious power (his insolent self-confidence, I 
ought to say), or encourage, for a moment, his dream of future 
conquest. His play was cautious and deep, but I struggled 
hard against him. For some time the combat was doubtful, at 
length, to my joy, the victory seemed inclining to my side : I 
had taken several of his best pieces, and manifestly baffled his 
projects. He put his hand to his brow and paused, in evident 
perplexity. I rejoiced in my advantage, but dared not glory in 
it yet. At length, he lifted his head, and, quietly maHng his 
move, looked at me and said, calmly — 

“ Now, you think you will win, don’t you '1” 

“ I hope so,” replied I, taking his pawn that he had pushed 
into the way of my bishop with so careless an air that I thought 
it was an oversight, but was not generous enough, under the 
circumstances, to direct his attention to it, and too heedless, at 
the moment, to foresee the consequences of my move. 

“ It is those bishops that trouble me,” said he ; “ but the bold 
knight can overleap the reverend gentleman,” taking my last 
bishop with his knight ; “ and now, those sacred persons once 
removed, I shall carry all before me.” 

“ Oh, Walter, how you talk*!” cried Milicent. “ She has far 
more pieces than you still.” 

“ I intend to give you some trouble yet,” said I ; “ and per- 
haps, sir, you will find yourself checkmated before you are 
aware. Look to your queen.” 

The combat deepened. The game was a long one, and I 
did give him some trouble : but he ^cas a better player than I. 

“ What keen gamesters you are 1” said Mr. Hattersley, who 
had now entered, and been watching us for some time. “Why, 
Mrs. Huntingdon, your hand ti'embles as if you had staked 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


255 


your all upon it! and Walter — you dog — you look as deep and 
cool as if you were certain of success — and as keen and cruel 
as if you would drain her heart’s blood 1 But if I were you, 
I wouldn’t beat her, for very fear : she’ll hate you if you do — 
she will by Heaven 1 I see it in her eye.” 

“ Hold your tongue, will you 1” said I — his talk distracted 
me, for I was driven to extremities. • A few more moves and I 
was inextricably entangled in the snare of my antagonist. 

“ Check,” cried he : I sought in agony some means of es- 
cape — “ mate !” he added, quietly, but with evident delight. 
He had suspended the utterance of that last fatal syllable, the 
better to enjoy my dismay. I was foolishly disconcerted by 
the event. Hattersley laughed; Milicent was troubled to see 
me so disturbed. Hargrave placed his hand on mine that 
rested on the table, and squeezing it with a firm but gentle 
pressure, murmured, “ Beaten — beaten 1” and gazed into my 
face with a look where exultation was blended with an expres- 
sion of ardor and tenderness yet more insulting. 

“ No, never, Mr. Hargrave!” exclaimed I, quickly withdraw- 
ing my hand. 

“ Do you deny V’ replied he, smilingly pointing to the board. 

“ No, no,” I answered, recollecting how strange my conduct 
must appear ; “ you have beaten me in that game.” 

“ Will you try another, then 

“ No.” 

“ You acknowledge my superiority ]” 

“ Yes — as a chess-player.” 

I rose to resume my work. 

“ Where is Annabella V’ said Hargi-ave, gi’avely, after glanc- 
ing round the room. 

“Gone out with Lord Lowborough,” answered I, for he 
looked at me for a reply. 

“ And not yet returned !” he said seriously. 

“ I suppose not.” 

“ Where is Huntingdon ]” looking round again. 

“ Gone out with Grimsby — as you know,” said Hattersley, 
suppressing a laugh, which broke forth as he concluded the 
sentence. 

Why did he laugh I Why did Hargrave connect them thus 
together ] Was it true, then '? And was this the dreadful 
secret he had wished to reveal to me ? I must know — and that 
quickly. I instantly rose and left the room to go in search of 


256 


THE TENANT OP WILDFELL HALL. 


Rachel, and demand an explanation of her words ; but Mr. 
Hargrave followed me into the ante-room, and before I could 
open its door, gently laid his hand upon the lock. 

“ May I tell you something, Mrs. Huntingdon said he, in 
a subdued tone, with serious, downcast^yes. 

“ If it be any thing worth hearing,” replied I, struggling to 
be cornposed, for I ti’embled in every limb. 

He quietly pushed a chair toward me. I merely leaned my 
hand upon it, and bid him go on. 

Do not be alarmed,” said he ; “ what I wish to say is noth- 
ing in itself ; and I will leave you to draw your own inferences 
from it. You say that Annabella is not yet returned 1” 

“ Yes, yes — go on !” said I, impatiently, for I feared my 
forced calmness would leave me before the end of his disclosure, 
whatever it might be. 

“ And you hear,” continued he, “ that Huntingdon is gone 
out with Grimsby ]” 

“ Well r’ 

“ I heard the latter say to your husband — or the man who 
calls himself so — ” 

“ Go on, sir.” 

He bowed submissively, and continued, “ I heard him say — 
‘ I shall manage it, you’ll see. They’re gone down by the water ; 
I shall meet them there, and tell him I want a bit of talk with 
him about some things that we needn’t trouble the lady with ; 
and she’ll say she can be walking back to the house ; and then 
I shall apologize, you know, and all that, and tip her a wink to 
take the way of the shrubbery. I’ll keep him talking there, 
about those matters I mentioned, and any thing else I can think 
of, as long as I can, and then bring him round the other way, 
stopping to look at the trees, the fields, and any thing else I can 
find to discourse of.’ ” Mr. Hargrave paused and looked at me. 

Without a word of comment or further questioning, I rose and 
darted from the room and out of the house. The torment of 
suspense was not to be endured. I would not suspect my hus- 
band falsely, on this man’s accusation, and I would not trust him 
unworthily — I must know the truth at once. I flew to the 
shrubbery. Scarcely had I reached it, when a sound of voices 
arrested my breathless speed. 

“We have lingered too long; he will be back,” said Lady 
Lowborough’s voice. 

“ Surely not. dearest,” was his reply, “ but you can run across 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


251 


the lawn, and get in as quietly as you can. I’ll follow in a 
while.” 

My knees trembled under me ; my brain swam round ; I was 
ready to faint. She must not see me thus. I shrunk among the 
bushes, and leaned against the trunk of a tree to let her pass. 

“Ah, Huntingdon,” said she reproachfully, pausing where I 
had stood with him the night before — “ it was here you kissed 
that woman.” She looked back into the leafy shade. Advancing 
thence, he answered, with a careless laugh — 

“Well, dearest, I couldn’t help it. You know I must keep 
straight with her as long as I can. Haven’t I seen you kiss your 
dolt of a husband scores of times 1 and do I ever complain 1” 

“ But tell me, don’t you love her still — a little said she, 
placing her hand on his arm, looking earnestly in his face — for 
I could see them plainly, the moon shining full upon them from 
between the branches of the tree that sheltered me. 

“ Not one hit, by all that’s sacred !” he replied, kissing her 
glowing cheek. 

“ Good heavens, I must be gone !” cried she, suddenly break- 
ing from him ; and away she flew. 

There he stood before me ; but I had not strength to confront 
him now ; my tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth ; I was 
well nigh sinking to the earth, and I almost wondered he did 
not hear the beating of my heart above the low sighing of the 
wind, and the fitful rustle of the falling leaves. My senses 
seemed to fail me, but still I saw his shadowy form pass before 
me, and through the rushing sound in my ears, I distinctly heard 
him say, as he stood looking up the lawn — 

“ There goes the fool. Run, Annabella, run ! There — in 
with you. Ah, he didn’t see ! That’s right Grimsby, keep him 
back.” And even his low laugh reached me as he walked away. 

“ God help me now !” I murmured, sinking on my knees 
among the damp weeds and brushwood that surrounded me, and 
looking up at the moonlit sky through the scant foliage above. 
It seemed all dim and quivering now to my darkened sight. 
My burning, bursting heart strove to pour forth its agony to 
God, but could not-frame its anguish into prayer; until a gust of 
wind swept over me, which, while it scattered the dead leaves, 
like blighted hopes, around, cooled my forehead and seemed a 
little to revive my sinking frame. Then, while I lifted up my 
soul in speechless, earnest supplication, some heavenly influence 
seemed to strengthen me within. I breathed more freely ; my 


258 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


vision cleared ; I saw distinctly the pure moon shining on, and 
the light clouds skimming the clear, dark sky ; and then, I saw 
the eternal stars twinkling down upon me ; I knew their God 
was mine, and he was strong to save and swift to hear. “ I will 
never leave thee, nor forsake thee,” seemed whispered from 
above their myriad orbs. No, no ; I felt he would not leave me 
comfortless ; in spite of earth and hell I should have strength 
for all my trials, and win a glorious rest at last. 

Refreshed, invigorated if not composed, I rQse and returned 
to the house. Much of my new-born strength and courage for 
sook me, I confess, as I entered it, and shut out the fresh wind 
and the glorious sky. Every thing I saw and heard seemed 
to sicken ray heart — the hall, the lamp, the staircase, the doors 
of the different apartments, the social sound of talk and laugh- 
ter from the drawing-room. How could J bear my future life 1 
In this house, among those people — oh, how could I endure to 
live ! John just then entered the hall, and seeing me, told me 
he had been sent in search of me, adding that he had taken in 
the tea, and master wished to know if I were coming. 

“Ask Mrs. Hattersley to be so kind as to make the tea, John,” 
said I. “ Say I am not well to-night, and wish to be excused.” 

I retired into the large, empty dining-room, where all was, 
silence and darkness, but for the soft sighing of the wind without, 
and the faint gleam of moonlight that pierced the blinds and 
curtains ; and there I walked rapidly up and down, thinking of 
my bitter thoughts alone. How different was this from the 
evening of yesterday ! That, it seems, was the last expiring 
flash of my life’s happiness. Poor, blinded fool that I was, to 
be so happy ! I could now see the reason of Arthur’s strange 
reception of me in the shrubbery : the burst of kindness was 
for his paramour, the start of horror foi his wife. Now, too, I 
could better understand the conversation between Hattersley 
and Grimsby : it w^as doubtless of his love for her they spoke, 
not for me. 

I heard the drawing-room door open : a light, quick step came 
out of the ante-room, crossed the hall, and ascended the stairs. 
It was Milicent — poor Milicent — gone to see how I was ; no one 
else cared for me ; but she still was kind. I shed no tears be- 
fore, but now they came — fast and free. Thus she did me good, 
without approaching me. Disappointed in her search, I heard 
her come down — more slowly than she had ascended. Would 
she come in there, and find me out 1 No; she turned in the 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


259 


opposite direction and re-entered the drawing-room. I was 
glad, for I knew not how to meet her, or what to say. I w^anted 
no confidant in my distress. I deserved none — and I wanted 
none. I had taken the burden upon myself: let me bear it 
alone. 

As the usual hour of retirement approached, I diied my eyes, 
and tried to clear my voice,^and calm my mind. I must see 
Arthur to-night, and speak to him ; but I would do it calmly : 
there should be no scene — nothing to complain or to boast of to 
his companions — nothing to laugh at with his lady love. When 
the company were retiring to their chambers, I gently opened 
the door, and just as he passed, I beckoned him in. 

“ What’s to do with you, Helen V* said he. “ Why couldn’t 
you come to make tea for us ] and what the deuce are you here 
for, in the dark 'I What ails you, young woman — you look 
like a ghost I” he continued, surveying me by the light of his 
candle. 

“No matter,” I answered — “ to you — you have no longer 
any regard for me, it appears ; and I have no longer any for 
you.” 

“ Hal-low ! what the devil is this V’ he muttered. 

“ I would leave you to-morrow,” continued I, “ and never 
again come under this roof, but for my child.” I paused a mo- 
ment to steady my voice. 

“ What in the devil’s name z^this, Helen]” cried he. “What 
can you be driving at ]” 

“ You know, perfectly well. Let us waste no time in useless 
explanation, but tell me, will you — ” 

He vehemently swore he knew nothing about it, and insisted 
upon hearing what poisonous old woman had been blackening 
his name, and what infamous lies I had been fool enough to be- 
lieve. 

“ Spare yourself the trouble of forswearing yourself and rack- 
ing your brains to stifle truth with falsehood,” I coldly replied. 
“ I have trusted to the testimony of no third person. I was in 
the shrubbery this evening, and I saw and heard for myself.” 

This was enough. He uttered a suppressed exclamation of 
consternation and dismay, and muttering, “ I shall catch it now !” 
set down his candle on the nearest chair, and, rearing his back 
against the wall, stood confronting me with folded arms. 

“ Well! what then ]” said he, with the calm insolence of min- 
gled shamelessness and desperation. 


260 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ Only this,” returned I : “ will you let me take our child and 
what remains of my fortune, and go 

“ Go where I” 

“ Any where, where he will be safe from your contaminating 
influence, and I shall be delivered from your presence — and you 
from mine.” 

“ No — by Jove, I won’t !” 

“ Will you let me have the child, then, without the money V* 

“ No — nor yourself without the child. Do you think I’m go- 
ing to be made the talk of the country, for your fastidious ca- 
prices 1” 

“ Then I must stay here, to be hated and despised. But 
henceforth we are husband and wife only in the name.” 

“ Very good.” 

“ I am your child’s mother, and ^our housekeeper — nothing 
more. So you need not trouble yourself any longer to feign the 
love you can not feel : I will exact no more heartless caresses 
from you — nor offer — nor endure them either. — I will not be 
mocked with the empty husk of conjugal endearments, when 
you have given the substance to another !” 

“ Very good — if yow please. We shall see who will tire first, 
my lady.” 

“ If I tire, it will be of living in the world with you ; not of 
living without your mockery of love. When you tire of your 
sinful ways, and show yourself truly repentant, I will forgive you 
— and, perhaps, try to love you again, though that will be hard, 
indeed.” 

“ Humph ! — and, meantime, you will go and talk me over to 
Mrs. Hargrave, and write long letters to aunt Maxwell to com- 
plain of the wicked wretch you have married I” 

“ I shall complain to no one. Hitherto, I have struggled 
hard to hide your vices from every eye, and invest you with 
virtues you never possessed — but now you must look to your- 
self” 

I left him — muttering bad language to himself, and went up- 
stairs. 

“ You are poorly, ma’am,” said Rachel, surveying me with 
deep anxiety. 

“ It is too true, Rachel !” said I, answering her sad looks rather 
than her words. 

“ I knew it, or I wouldn’t have mentioned such a thing.” 

“ But don’t you trouble, yourself about it,” said I, kissing her 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


261 


pale, time-wasted cheek ; “ I can bear it — better than you 
imagine.” 

“Yes, you were always for ‘bearing.’ But if I was you, I 
wouldn’t bear it. I’d give way to it, and cry right hard ! and 
I’d talk, too — I just would. I’d let him know what it was to — ” 

“ I have talked,” said I : “ I’ve said enough.” 

“ Then I’d cry,” persisted she. “ I wouldn’t look so white 
and so calm, and burst my heart with keeping it in !” 

“ I have cried,” said I, smiling in spite of my misery ; “ and 
I am calm now, really ; so don’t discompose me again, nurse. 
Let us say no more about it — and douH mention it to the ser- 
vants. There, you may go, now. Good-night ; and don’t dis- 
turb your rest for me : I shall sleep well, if I can.” 

Notwithstanding this resolution, I found my bed so intoler- 
able that, before two o’clock, I rose, and lighting my candle by 
the rushlight that was still burning, I got my desk and sat down 
in my dressing-gown to recount the events of the past evening. 
It was better to be so occupied than to be lying in bed tortur- 
ing my brain with recollections of the far past and anticipations 
of the dreadful future. I have found relief in describing the 
very circumstances that have destroyed my peace, as well as 
the little trivial details attendant upon their discovery. No 
sleep I could have got this night would have done so much 
toward composing my mind, and preparing me to meet the 
trials of the day — I fancy so, at least ; — and yet, w'hen I cease 
writing, I find my head aches terribly; and when I look into 
the glass I am startled at my haggard, worn appearance. 

Rachel has been to dress me, and says I have had a sad night 
of it, she can see. Milicent has just looked in to ask me how I 
was. I told her I was better, but to excuse my appearance 
admitted I had had a restless night. I wish this day were 
over ! I shudder at the thoughts of going down to breakfast. 
How shall I encounter them all 'i Yet let me remember it is 
not I that am guilty : I have no cause to fear ; and if they 
scorn me as the victim of their guilt, I can pity their folly and 
despise their scorn. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


CONCEALMENT. 

Evening. — Breakfast passed well-over. I was calm and cool 
throughout. I answered composedly all inquiries respecting 
my health ; and whatever was unusual in my look or manner, 
was generally attributed to the trifling indisposition that had 
occasioned my early retirement last night. But how am I to 
get over the ten or twelve days that must yet elapse before 
they go ] Yet why so long for their departure '? When they 
are gone how shall I get through the months or years of my 
future life, in company with that man — my greatest enemy — 
for none could injure me as he has done 1 Oh ! when I think 
how fondly, how foolishly I have loved him, how madly I have 
trusted him, how constantly I have labored, and studied, and 
prayed, and struggled for his advantage ; and how cruelly he 
has trampled on my love, betrayed my ti’ust, scorned my pray- 
ers and tears, and efforts for his preservation— crushed ray 
hopes, destroyed my youth’s best feelings, and doomed me to 
a life of hopeless misery, as far as man can do it — it is not 
enough to say that I no longer love ray husband — I hate him ! 
The word stares me in the face like a guilty confession, but it is 
true : I hate him — I hate him ! But God have mercy on his 
miserable soul ! and make him see and feel his guilt. I ask no 
other vengeance ! If he could but fully know and truly feel 
my wrongs, I should be well avenged ; and I Could freely par- 
don all ; but he is so lost, so hardened in his heartless depravity 
that, in this life, I believe he never will. But it is useless dwell- 
ing on this theme : let me seek once more to dissipate reflec- 
tion in the minor details of passing events. 

Mr. Hargrave has annoyed me all day long with his serious, 
sympathizing, and (as he thinks) unobstrusive politeness. If it 
were more obstrusive it would trouble me less, for then I could 
snub him ; but, as it is, he contrives to appear so really kind 
and thoughtful, that I can not do so without rudeness and seem- 
ing ingratitude. I sometimes think I ought to give him credit 
for the good feeling he simulates so well; and then again, I 
think it is my duty to suspect him under the peculiar circum- 
stances in which I am placed. His kindness may not all be 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


263 


feigned, but still, let not the purest impulse of gratitude to him, 
induce me to forget myself; let me remember the game of 
chess, the expressions he used on the occasion, and those inde- 
scribable looks of his, that so justly roused my indignation, and 
I think I shall be safe enough. I have done well to record 
them so minutely. 

I think he wishes to find an opportunity of speaking to me 
alone : he has seemed to be on the watch all day ! but I liave 
taken care to disappoint him ; not that I fear any thing he could 
say, but I have trouble enough without the addition of his in- 
sulting consolations, condolences, or whatever else he might 
attempt ; and for Milicent’s sake, I do not wish to quarrel with 
him. He excused himself from going out to shoot with the 
other gentlemen in the morning, under the pretext of having 
letters to write ; and instead of retiring for that purpose into 
the library, he sent for his desk into the morning-room where 
I was seated with Milicent and Lady Lowborough. They 
had betaken themselves to their work ; I, less to divert my 
mind than to deprecate conversation, had provided myself 
with a book. Milicent saw that I wished to be quiet, and 
accordingly let me alone. Annabella, doubtless, saw it too ; 
but that was no reason why she should restrain her tongue, or 
curb her cheerful spirits. She accordingly chatted away, ad- 
dressing herself almost exclusively to me, and with the utmost 
assurance and familiarity, growing the more animated and 
friendly, the colder and briefer my answers became. Mr. Har- 
grave saw that I could ill endure it ; and, looking up from his 
desk, he answered her questions and observations for me, as 
far as he could, and attempted to transfer her social attentions 
from me to himself ; but it would not do. Perhaps she thought 
I had a headache and could not bear to talk ; at any rate, she 
saw that her loquacious vivacity annoyed me, as I could tell by 
the malicious pertinacity 'with which she persisted. But I 
checked it, effectually, by putting into her hand the book I had 
been trying to read, on the fly leaf of which I had hastily scrib- 
bled— 

“ I am too well acquainted with your character and conduct 
to feel any real friendship for you, and, as I am without your 
talent for dissimulation, I can not assume the appearance of it 
I must, therefore, beg, that hereafter all familiar intercourse 
may cease between us ; and if I still continue to treat you with 
civility, as if you were a w'oman worthy of consideration and 


264 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


respect, understand that it is out of regard for your cousin Mili- 
cent’s feelings, not for yours.” 

Upon perusing this, she turned scarlet and bit her lip 
Covertly tearing away the leaf, she crumpled it up and put it in 
the fire, and then employed herself in turning over the pages of 
the book, and, really or apparently, perusing its contents. In a 
little while Milicent announced it her intention to repair to the 
nursery, and asked if I would accompany her. 

“ Annabella will excuse us,” said she, “ she’s busy reading.” 

“ No, I won’t,” cried Annabella, suddenly looking up and 
throwing her book on the table. “ I want to speak to Helen a 
minute. You may go, Milicent, and she’ll follow in a while.” 
(Milicent went.) “ Will you oblige me, Helen 1” continued 
she. 

Her impudence astounded me ; but I complied, and followed 
her into the library. She closed the door, and walked up to 
the fire. 

“ Who told you this ]” said she. 

“ No one : I am not incapable of seeing for myself.” 

“Ah, you are suspicious!” cried she, smiling with a gleam 
of hope. Hitherto there had been a kind of desperation in her 
hardihood ; now she was evidently relieved. 

“ If I icere suspicious,” I replied, “ I should have discovered 
your infamy long before. No, Lady Lowborough, I do not 
found my charge upon suspicion.” 

“ On what do you found it then ]” said she, throwing herself 
into an arm-chair, and stretching out her feet to the fender, 
with an obvious effort to appear composed. 

“ I enjoy a moonlight ramble as well as you,” I answered, 
steadily fixing my eyes upon her : “ and the shrubbery happens 
to be one of my favorite resorts.” 

She colored again, excessively, and remained silent, pressing 
her finger against her teeth, and gazing into the fire. I watched 
her a few moments with a feeling of malevolent gratification; 
then, moving toward the door, I* calmly asked if she had any 
thing more to say. 

“ Yes, yes !” cried she eagerly, starting up from her reclining 
posture. I want to know if you will tell Lord Lowborough 

“ Suppose I do.” 

“ Well, if you are disposed to publish the matter, I can not 
dissuade you, of course; but there will be terrible work if you 
do ; and if you don’t, I shall think you the most generous of 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


265 


mortal beings, and if there is any thing in the world I can do 
for you — any thing short of — ” she hesitated. 

“ Short of renouncing your guilty connection with my hus- 
band, I suppose you mean,” said I. 

She paused, in evident disconcertion and perplexity, mingled 
with anger she dared not show. 

“ I can not renounce what is dearer than life,” she muttered 
in a low, hurried tone. Then, suddenly raising her head, and 
fixing her gleaming eyes upon me, she continued earnestly, 
“ But, Helen — or Mrs. Huntingdon, or whatever you would 
have me call you — will you tell him % If you are generous, 
here is a fitting opportunity for the exercise of your magna- 
nimity : if you are proud, here am I — your rival — ready to ac- 
knowledge myself your debtor for an act of the most noble 
forbearance.” 

“ I shall not tell him.” 

“ You will not !” cried she delightedly. “ Accept my sincere 
thanks, then !” 

She sprang up, and offered me her hand. I drew back. 

“ Give me no thanks ; it is not for your sake that I refrain. 
Neither is it an act of any forbearance : I have no wish to pub- 
lish your shame. I should be sorry to distress your husband 
with the knowledge of it.” 

“ And Milicent — will you tell her 

“ No ; on the contrary, I shall do my utmost to conceal it 
from her. I would not for much that she should know the in- 
famy and disgrace of her relation.” 

“ You use hard words, Mrs. Huntingdon — but I can pardon 
you.” 

“ And now, Lady Lowborough,” continued I, “ let me coun- 
sel you to leave this house as soon as possible. You must be 
aware that your continuance here is excessively disagreeable to 
me — not for Mr. Huntingdon’s sake,” said I, observing the 
dawn of a malicious smile of triumph on her face — “ you are 
welcome to him, if you like him, as far as I am concerned — 
but because it is painful to be always disguising my true senti- 
ments respecting you, and straining to keep up an appearance of 
civility and respect toward one for whom I have not the most 
distant shadow of esteem, and because, if you stay, your conduct 
can not possibly remain concealed much longer from the only 
two persons in the house who do not know it already. And, for 
your husband’s sake, Annabella, and even for your own, I wish 


266 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALE. 


' — I eaniestly advise and entreat you — to break off this unlawful 
connection at once, and return to your duty while you may, 
before the dreadful consequences — ” 

“Yes, yes, of course,’^ said she, interrupting me with a ges- 
ture of impatience. “ But I can not go, Helen, before the time 
appointed for our departure. What possible pretext could I 
fi’ame for such a thing % Whether I proposed going back alone 
— which Lowborough would not hear of — or taking him with 
me, the very circumstance itself, would be certain to excite sus- 
picion — and when our visit is so nearly at an end too — little 
more than a week — surely, you can endure my presence so 
long ! I will not annoy you with any more of my friendly im- 
pertinences.” 

“ Well ! I have nothing more to say to you.” 

“.Have you mentioned this affair to Huntingdon V' asked she, 
as I was leaving the room. 

“ How dare you mention his name to me !” was the only 
answer I gave. 

No words have passed between us since, but such as out- 
ward decency or pure necessity demanded. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

PROVOCATIONS. 

Nineteenth. — In proportion as Lady Lowborough finds she 
has nothing to fear from me, and as the time of departure draws 
nigh, the more audacious and insolent she becomes. She does 
not scruple to speak to my husband with affectionate familiarity 
in my presence, when no one else is by; and is particularly 
fond of displaying her interest in his health and welfare, or in 
any thing that concenis him, as if for the pui'pose of contrasting 
her kind solicitude with my cold indifference. And he rewards 
her by such smiles and glances, such whispered words, or bold- 
ly spoken insinuations, indicative of his sense of her goodness 
and my neglect, as makes the blood rush into my face in spite 
of myself— for I would be utterly regardless of it all — deaf and 
blind to every thing that passes between them, since the more 
I show myself sensible to their wickedness, the more she tri- 
umphs in her victory, and the more he flatters himself that 1 love 


THE TENANT OF WILDPELL HALL. 


267 


him devotedly still, in spite of my pretended indifference. On 
such occasions I have sometimes been startled by a subtle, 
fiendish suggestion inciting me to show him the contrary by a 
seeming encouragement of Hargrave’s advances; but such ideas 
are banished in a moment with horror and self-abasement ; and 
then I hate him tenfold more than ever, for haying brought me 
to this ! God pardon me for it — and all my sinful thoughts ! 
Instead of being humbled and purified by my afflictions, I feel 
that they are turning my nature into gall. This must be my 
fault as much as theirs that wrong me. No true Christian could 
cherish such bitter feelings as 1 do against him and her — es- 
pecially the latter ; him, I still feel that I could pardon — freely, 
gladly — on the sightest token of repentance ; but she — words 
can not utter my abhorrence. Reason forbids, but passion 
urges strongly ; and I must pray and struggle long ere I sub- 
due it. 

It is well that she is leaving to-morrow, for I could not well 
endure her presence for another day. This morning, she rose 
earlier than usual. I found her in the room alone, when I went 
down to breakfast. 

“ Oh Helen ! is it you 1” said she, turning as I entered. 

I gave an involuntary start back on seeing her, at which she 
uttered a short laugh, observing — 

“ I think we are hoth disappointed.” 

I came forward and busied myself with the breakfast-things. 

“ This is the last day I shall burden your hospitality,” said 
she, as she seated herself at the table. “ Ah, here comes one 
that will not rejoice at it !” she murmured, half to herself, as 
Arthur entered the room. 

He shook hands with her and wished her good morning : 
hen, looking lovingly in her face, and still retaining her hand in 
.lis, murmured pathetically — 

“ The last — last day !” 

“Yes,” said she with some asperity; “and I rose early to 
make the best of it — I have been here alone this half hour, and 
you, you lazy creature — ” 

“ Well, I thought I was early too,” said he — “ but,” dropping 
his voice almost to a whisper, “ you see we are not alone.” 

“ We never are,” returned she. But they were almost as 
good as alone, for I was now standing at the window, watching 
the clouds, and struggling to suppress my wrath. 

Some more words passed between them, which, happily, f 


268 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


did not overhear ; but Annabella had the audacity to come and 
place herself beside me, and even to put her hand upon my 
shoulder and say softly — 

“ You need not grudge him to me, Helen, for I love him more 
than ever you could do.” 

This put me beside myself. I took her hand and violently 
dashed it from me, with an expression of abhorrence and indig- 
nation that could not be suppressed. Startled, almost appalled, 
by this sudden outbreak, she recoiled in silence. I would have 
given way to mv fury and said more, but Arthur’s low laugh 
recalled me to myself. I checked the half-uttered invective, 
and scornfully turned away, regretting that I had given him so 
much amusement. He was still laughing when Mr. Hargrave 
made his appearance. How much of the scene he had witnessed 
I do not know, for the door was ajar when he entered. He 
greeted his host and his cousin both coldly, and me with a 
glance intended to express the deepest sympathy mingled with 
high admiration and esteem. 

“ How much allegiance do you owe to that man ]” he asked 
below his breath, as he stood beside me at the window, affect 
ing to be making observations on the weather. 

“ None,” I answered. And immediately returning to the ta- 
ble, I employed myself in making the tea. He followed, and 
would have entered into some kind of conversation with me, but 
the other guests were now beginning to assemble, and I took 
no more notice of him, except to give him his coffee. 

After breakfast, determined to pass as little of the day as 
possible in company with Lady Lowborough, I quietly stole 
away from the company and retired to the library. Mr. Har- 
grave followed me thither, under pretense of coming for a book; 
and first, turning to the shelves, he selected a volume; and then, 
quietly, but by no means timidly, approaching me, he stood be- 
side me, resting his hand on the back of my chair, and said softly. 
And so you consider yourself free, at last'l” 

“ Yes,” said I, without moving, or raising my eyes from my 
book — “ free to do any thing but offend God and my conscience.” 

There was a momentary pause. 

“ Very right,” said he ; “ provided your conscience be not too 
morbidly tender, and your ideas of God not too erroneously se- 
vere ; but can you suppose it would offend that benevolent Be- 
ing to make the happiness of one who would die for yours? — to 
raise a' devoted heart from purgatorial torments to a state of 


1 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


209 


heavenly bliss, when you could do it without the slightest injury 
to yourself or any other I” 

This was spoken in a low, earnest, melting tone as he bent 
over me. I now raised my head ; and, steadily confronting his 
gaze, I answered calmly — 

“ Mr. Hargrave, do you mean to insult me V’ 

He was not prepared for this. He paused a moment to re- 
cover the shock ; then, drawing himself up and removing his 
hand from my chair, he answered, with proud sadness — 

“ That w’as not my intention.” 

I just glanced toward the door, with a slight movement of the 
head, and then returned to my book. He immediately with- 
drew. This was better than if I had answered with more 
words, and in the passionate spirit to which my first impulse 
would have prompted. What a good thing it is to be able to 
command one’s temper ! I must labor to cultivate this inesti- 
mable quality : God only knows how often I shall need it in 
this rough, dark road that lies before me. 

In the course of the morning, I drove over to the Grove with 
the two ladies, to give Milicent an opportunity of bidding fare- 
well to her mother and sister. They persuaded her to stay 
with them the rest of the day, Mrs. Hargrave promising to bring 
her back in the evening and remain till the party broke up on 
the morrow. Consequently, Lady Lowborough and I had the 
pleasure of returning tete-a-tete in the carnage together. For 
the first mile or two, we kept silence, I looking out of my win- 
dow, and she leaning back in her corner. But I was not going 
to restrict myself to any particular position for her : when I 
was tired of leaning forward, with the cold, raw wind in my 
face ; and surveying the russet hedges, and the damp tangled 
grass of their banks, I gave it up, and leaned back too. With 
her usual impudence, my companion then made some attempts 
to get uj> a conversation; but the monosyllables “ yes,” or “no,” 
or “ humph,” were the utmost her several remarks could elicit 
from me. At last, on her asking my opinion upon some imma- 
terial point of discussion, I answered — 

“ Why do you wish to talk to me. Lady Lowborough 1 — you 
must know what I think of you.” 

“ Well, if you will be so bitter against me,” replied she, “ I 
can’t help it; but I'm not going to sulk for any body.” 

Our short drive was now at an end. As soon as the carriage 
door was opened, she sprang out, and went down the park to 


870 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


meet the gentlemen, who were just returning from the woods. 
Of course I did not follow. 

But I had not done with her impudence yet : — after dinner, 
[ retired to the drawing-room, as usual, and she accompanied 
me, but I had the two children with me, and I gave them my 
whole attention, and determined to keep them till the gentle- 
men came, or till Milicent arrived with her mother. Little He- 
len, however, soon tired of playing, and insisted upon going to 
sleep ; and while I sat on the sofa with her on my knee, and 
Arthur seated beside me, gently playing with her soft, flaxen 
hair. Lady Lowborough composedly came and placed herself 
on the other side. 

“ To-morrow, Mrs. Huntingdon,” said she, “you will be de- 
livered from my presence, which, no doubt, you will be very 
glad of — it is natural you should — ^but do you know I have 
rendered you a great service 1 Shall I tell you what it is 

“ I shall be glad to hear of any service you have rendered me,”* 
said I, determined to be calm, for I knew by the tone of her 
voice she wanted to'proVoke me. 

“ Well,” resumed she, “have you not obsei-ved this salutary 
change in Mr. Huntingdon ! Don’t you see what a sober, 
temperate man he is become ? You saw with regret the sad 
habits he was contracting, I know; and I know you did your 
utmost to deliver him from them — ^but without success, until I 
came to your assistance. I told him, in few words, that I 
could not bear to see him degrade himself so, and that I should 
cease to — no matter what I told him ; but you see the reforma- 
tion I have wrought ; and you ought to thank me for it.” 

I rose and rang for the nurse. 

“ But I desire no thanks,” she continued, “ all the return I 
ask is, that you will take care of him^when I am gone, and not, 
by harshness and neglect, drive him back to his old courses.” 

I was almost sick with passion, but Rachel was now at the 
door ; I pointed to the children, for I could not trust myself to 
speak ; she took them away, and I followed. 

“ Will you, Helen ]” continued the speaker. 

I gave her a look that blighted the malicious smile on her 
face — or checked it, at least for a moment — and departed. In 
the ante-room I met Mr. Hargrave. He saw I was in no 
humor to be spoken to, and suffered me to pass without a word ; 
but when, after a few minutes’ seclusion in the library, I had 
regained my composure, and was returning, to join Mrs. Har- 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


271 


grave and Milicent, whom I had just heard come down stairs, 
and go into the drawing-room. I found him there still, linger- 
ing in the dimly lighted apartment, and evidently waiting for me. 

“ Mrs. Huntingdon,” said he as I passed, will you allow me 
one word 

“ What is it then ? Be quick if you please.” 

“ I offended you this morning ; and I can not live under your 
displeasure.” 

“ Then, go, and sin no more,” replied I, turning away. 

“ No, no !” said he hastily, setting himself before me. “ Par- 
don me, but I must have your forgiveness. I leave you to- 
morrow, and I may not have an opportunity of speaking to 
you again. I was wrong, to forget myself — and you, as I did ; 
but let me implore you to forget and forgive my rash pre- 
sumption, and think of me as if those words had never been 
spoken ; for, believe me, I regret them deeply, and the loss of 
your esteem is too severe a penalty — T can not bear it.” 

“ Forgetfulness is not to be purchased with a wish ; and I 
can not bestow my esteem on all who desire it, unless they de- 
serve it too.” 

“ I shall think my life well spent in laboring to deserve it, if 
you will but pardon this offense. Will you ]” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Yes 1 but that is coldly spoken. ^Give me your hand and 
I’ll believe you. You won’t. Then, Mrs. Huntingdon, you do 
not forgive me !” 

“ Yes — here it is, and my forgiveness with it; only — sin no 
more^ 

He pressed my cold hand with sentimental fervor, but said 
nothing, and stood aside to let me p^ss into the room, where all 
the company were now assembled. Mr. Grimsby was seated 
near the door ; on seeing me enter, almost immediately followed 
by Hargrave, he leered at me, with a glance of intolerable sig- 
nificance, as I passed. I looked him in the face, till he sullenly 
turned away, if not ashamed^ 'at least confounded for the moment. 
Meantime, Hattersley had seized Hargrave by the arm, and 
was w’hispering something in his ear — some coarse joke, no 
doubt, for the latter neither laughed nor spoke in answer, but, 
turning from him with a slight curl of the lip, disengaged him- 
self and went to his mother, who was telling Lord Lowborough 
how many reasons she had to be proud of her son. 

Thank Heaven, they are all going to-morrow. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

DUAL SOLITUDE. 


f. 


December 20th, 1824. — This is the third anniversaiy of our 
felicitous union. It is now two months since our guests left us 
to the enjoyment of each other’s society; and I have had nine 
weeks’ experience of this new phase of conjugal life — two per- 
sons living together, as master and mistress of the house, and 
father and mother of a winsome, merry, little child, with the 
mutual understanding that there is no love, friendship, or sym- 
pathy between them. As far as in me lies, I endeavor to live 
peaceably with him ; I treat him with unimpeachable civility, 
give up my convenience to his, wherever it may reasonably be 
done, and consult him in a business-like way on household 
affairs, deferring to his pleasure and judgment, even when I 
know the latter to be inferior to my own. 

As for him ; for the first week or two, he was peevish and 
low — fretting, I suppose, over his dear Annabella’s departure — 
and particularly ill-tempered to me ; every thing I did was 
wrong ; I was cold-hearted, hard, insensate ; my sour, pale face 
was perfectly repulsive; my voice made him shudder; he knew 
not how he could live through the winter wdth me ; I should 
kill him by inches. Again I proposed a separation, but it would 
not do : he was not going to be the talk of all the old gossips in 
the neighborhood ; he would not have it said that he was such 
a brute his wife could not live with him — no ; he must contrive 
to bear with me. 

“ I must contrive to bear with you, you mean,” said I, “ for as 
long as I discharge my functions of steward and housekeeper, 
so conscientiously and well, without pay and without thanks, you 
can not afford to part with me. I shall therefore remit these 
duties when my bondage becomes intolerable.” This threat, 
I thought, would serve to keep him in check, if any thing 
would. 

I believe he was much disappointed that I did not feel his 
offensive sayings more acutely, for when he said any thing par- 
ticularly well calculated to hurt my feelings, he would stare me 
searchingly in the face, and then grumble against my “ marble 
heart,” or my “brutal insensibility.” If I had bitterly wept, 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


273 


and deplored his lost affection, he would, perhaps, have conde- 
scended to pity me, and taken me into favor for a while, just to 
comfort his solitude and console him for the absence of his 
beloved Annabella, until he oould meet her again, or some 
more fitting substitute. Thank heaven, I am not so weak as 
that ! I was infatuated once, with a foolish, besotted affection, 
that clung to him in spite of his unworthiness, but it is fairly 
gone now — wholly crushed and withered away ; and he has 
none but himself and his vices to thank for it. 

At first (in compliance with his sweet’s lady’s injunctions, I 
suppose) he abstained wondeifully well from seeking to solace 
his cares in wine ; but at length he began to relax his virtuous 
efforts, and now and then exceeded a little, and still continues 
to do so — nay, sometimes, not a little. When he is under the 
exciting influence of these excesses, he sometimes fires up and 
attempts to play the brute ; and then I take little pains to sup- 
press my scorn and disgust : and when he is under the depressing 
influence of the after consequences, he bemoans his sufferings 
and his errors, and charges them both upon me; he knows such 
indulgence injures his health, and does him more harm than 
good ; but he says I drive him to it by my unnatural, unwom- 
anly conduct; it will be the ruin of him in the end, but it is all 
my fault ; and then, I am roused to defend myself — sometimes, 
with bitter recrimination. This is a kind of injustice I can not 
patiently endure. Have I not labored long and hard to save 
him from this very vice 1 would I not labor still, to deliver him 
from it, if I could 1 But could I do so by fawning upon him 
and caressing him when I know that he scorns me ] Is it my 
fault that I have lost my influence with him, or that he has for- 
feited every claim to my regard % And" should I seek a recon-' 
ciliation with him, when I feel that I abhor him, and that he 
despises me % and while he continues still to correspond with 
Lady Lowborough, as I know he does'? No, never, never, 
never ! He may drink himself dead, but it is not my fault ! 

Yet I do my part to save him still : I give him to understand 
that drinking makes his eyes dull, and his face red and bloated ; 
and that it tends to render him imbecile in body and mind ; and 
if Annabella were to see him as often as I do, she would speedily 
be disenchanted ; and that she certainly will withdraw her favor 
from him, if he continues such courses. Such a mode of admo- 
nition wins only coarse abuse for me — and indeed 1 almost feel 
as if I deserved it, for I hate to use such arguments ; but they 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


2 4 


sink into his stupefied heart, and make him pause, and ponder, 
and abstain, more than any thing else I could say. 

At present, I am enjoying a temporary relief from his pres- 
ence : he is gone with Hargrave, to join a distant hunt, and will 
probably not be back before to-morrow evening. How differ- 
ently I used to feel his absence ! 

Mr. Hargrave is still at the Grove. He and Arthur fre- 
quently meet to pursue their rural sports together ; he ofetn 
calls upon us here, and Arthur not unfrequently rides over to 
him. I do not think either of these soi-disant friends is over-flow- 
ing with love for the other ; but such intercourse serves to get 
the time on, and I am very willing it should continue, as it saves 
me some hours of discomfort in Arthur’s society, and gives him 
some better employment than the sottish indulgence of his sen- 
sual appetites. The only objection I have to Mr. Hargrave’s 
being in the neighborhood, is that the fear of meeting him at the 
Grove, prevents me from seeing his sister so often as I other- 
wise should ; for, of late he has conducted himself toward me 
with sirch unerring propriety that I have almost forgotten his 
former conduct. I suppose he is striving to “ win my esteem.” 
If he continue to act in this way, he may win it ; but what theni 
the moment he attempts to demand any thing more, he will lose 
it again. 

February 10th. — It is a hard, embittering thing to have one’s 
kind feelings and good intentions cast back in one’s teeth. I 
was beginning to relent toward my wretched partner — to pity 
his forlorn, comfortless condition, unalleviated as it is by the 
consolations of intellectual resources and the answer of a good 
conscience toward God — and to think I ought to sacrifice my 
pride, and renew my e^orts once again to make his home agree- 
able, and lead him back to the path of virtue ; not by false 
professions of love, and not by pretended remorse, but by miti- 
gating my habitual coldness of manner, and commuting my 
frigid civility into kindness wherever an opportunity occurred ; 
and not only was I beginning to think so, but I had already 
begun to act upon the thought — and what was the result'? No 
answering spark of kindness — no awakening penitence, but an 
unappeasable ill-humor and a spirit of tyrannous exaction that 
increased with indulgence, and a lurking gleam of self-compla- 
cent triumph, at every detection of relenting softness in my man- 
ner, that congealed me to marble again as often as it recurred ; 
and this morning he finished the business ; I think the petrifac- 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


275 


tion is so completely effected at last, that nothing can melt me 
again. Among his letters was one which he perused with 
symptoms of unusual gratification, and then threw across the 
table, with the admonition — 

“ There !” read that, and take a lesson by it !” 

It was in the free, dashing hand of Lady Lowborough. I 
glanced at the first page ; it seemed full of extravagant protesta- 
tions of affection; impetuous longings for a speedy reunion; and 
impious defiance of God’s mandates, and railings against his 
providence for having cast their lot asunder, and doomed them 
both to the hateful bondage of alliance with those they could not 
love. He gave a slight titter on seeing me change color. I 
folded up the letter, rose, and returned it to him, with no remark 
but — 

“ Thank you ; I will take a lesson by it !” 

My little Arthur was standing between his knees, delightedly 
playing with the bright ruby ring on his finger. Urged by a 
sudden, imperative impulse to deliver my son from that contam- 
inating influence, I caught him up in my arms, and carried him 
with me out of the room. Not liking this abrupt removal, the 
child began to pout and cry. This was a new stab to my al- 
ready tortured heart. I would not let him go ; but, taking him 
with me into the library, I shut the door, and, kneeling on the 
floor beside him, I embraced him, kissed him, wept over him in 
passionate fondness. Rather frightened than consoled by this, 
he turned struggling from me, and cried out aloud for his papa. 
I released him from my arms, and never were more bitter tears 
than those that now concealed him from my blinded, burning 
eyes. Hearing his cries, the father came to the room. I in- 
stantly turned away lest he should see and misconstrue my 
emotion. He swore at me, and took the now pacified child 
away. 

It is hard that my little darling should love him more than me ; 
and that, when the well-being and culture of my son is all I have 
to live for, I should see my influence destroyed by one whose 
selfish affection is more injurious than the coldest indifference or 
the harshest tyranny could be. If I, for his good, deny him 
some trifling indulgence, he goes to his father, and the latter, in 
spite of his selfish indolence, will even give himself some trouble 
to meet the child’s desires. If I attempt to curb his will, or look 
gravely on him for some act of childish disobedience, he knows 
his other parent will smile, and take his part against me. Thus, 


276 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


not only have I the father’s spirit in the son to contend against, 
the germs of his evil tendencies to search out and eradicate, and 
his coiTupting intercourse and example in after life to counter- 
act, but already he counteracts my arduous labor for the child’s 
advantage, destroys my influence over his tender mind, and robs 
me of his very love. I had no earthly hope but this, and he 
seems to take a diabolical delight in tearing it away. 

But it is wrong to despair. I will remember the counsel of 
the inspired writer to him “ that feareth the Lord and obeyeth 
the voice of his servant, that sitteth in darkness and hath no light: 
let him trust in the name of the Lord, and stay upon his God!” 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

THE NEIGHBOR AGAIN. 

December 20th 1825. — Another year is past, and I am weary 
of this life. And yet I can not wish to leave it : whatever afflic- 
tions assail me here, I can not wish to go and leave my darling 
in this dark and wicked world alone, without a friend to guide 
him through its weary mazes, to warn him of its thousand 
snares, and guard him from the perils that beset him on every 
hand. I am not well fitted to be his only companion, I know ; 
but there is no other to supply my place. I am too grave to 
minister to his amusements and enter into his infantile sports as 
a nurse or a mother ought to do, and often his bursts of gleeful 
merriment trouble and alarm me ; I see in them his father’s 
spirit and temperament, and I tremble for the consequences; and, 
too often, damp the innocent mirth I ought to share. That fa- 
ther, on the contraiy, has no weight of sadness on his mind — is 
troubled with no fears, no scruples concerning his son’s future 
w’elfare ; and at evenings, especially, the times when the child 
sees him the most and the oftenest, he is always particularly jo- 
cund and open-hearted : ready to laugh and to jest with any 
thing or any body — but me — and I am particularly silent and 
sad : therefore, of course, the child dotes upon his seemingly joy- 
ous, amusing, ever indulgent papa, and will at any time gladly 
exchange my company for his. This disturbs me greatly ; not 
so much for the sake of my son’s affection (though I do prize 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


277 


that highly, and though I feel it is my right, and know I have 
done much to earn it) as for that influence over him which, for 
liis own advantage, I would strive to purchase and retain, and 
which, for very spite, his father delights to rob me of, and, from 
motives of mere idle egotism, is pleased to win to himself, mak- 
ing no use of it but to torment me, and ruin the child. My only 
consolation is, that he spends comparatively little of his time at 
home ; and, during the months he passes in London or else- 
where, 1 have a chance of recovering the ground I had lost, and 
overcoming with good the evil he has wrought by his willful 
mismanagement. But then it is a bitter trial to behold him, on 
his retura, doing his utmost to subvert my labors, and transform 
my innocent, affectionate, tractable darling into a selfish, disobe- 
dient, and mischievous boy; thereby preparing the soil for those 
vices he has so successfully cultivated in his own perverted na- 
ture. 

Happily, there were none of Arthur’s “friends” invited to 
Grassdale last autumn ; he^Jlook himself off to visit some of 
them instead. I wish he would always do so, and I wish his 
friends were numerous and loving enough to keep him among 
them all the year round. Mr. Hargrave, considerably to my 
annoyance, did not go with him ; but I think 1 have done with 
that gentleman at last. 

For seven or eight months, he behaved so remarkably well, 
and managed so skillfully too, that I was almost completely off 
my guard, and was really beginning to look upon him as a 
friend, and even to treat him as such, with certain prudent re- 
strictions (which I deemed scarcely necessary)* when, presum 
ing upon my unsuspecting kindness, he thought he might ven- 
ture to overstep the bounds of decent moderation and propriety 
that had so long retained him. It was on a pleasant evening at 
the close of May. I was wandering in the park, and he, on 
seeing me there, as he rode past, made bold to enter and ap- 
proach me, dismounting, and leaving his horse at the gate. 
This was the first time he had ventured to come within its in- 
closure, since I had been left alone, without the sanction of his 
mother’s or sister’s company, or at least the excuse of a mes- 
sage from them. But he managed to appear so calm and easy, 
so respectful and self-possessed in his friendliness, that, though 
a little sui-prised, I was neither alarmed nor offended at the un- 
usual liberty, and he walked with me under the ash trees and 
by the water-side, and talked, with considerable animation. 


278 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


good taste, and intelligence, on many subjects, before I began 
to think about getting rid of him. Then, after a pause, during 
which we both stood gazing on the calm, blue water ; I revolv- 
ing in my mind the best means of politely dismissing my com- 
panion, he, no doubt, pondering other matters equally alien to 
the sweet sights and sounds that alone were present to his 
senses — he suddenly electrified me by beginning, in a peculiar 
tone, low, soft, but perfectly distinct, to pour forth the most un- 
equivocal expressions of earnest and passionate love ; pleading 
his cause with all the bold yet artful eloquence he could sum- 
mon to his aid. But I cut short his appeal, and repulsed him 
so deterrain ately, so decidedly, and with such a mixture of 
scornful indignation, tempered with cool, dispassionate sorrow 
and pity for his benighted mind, that he withdrew, astonished, 
mortified, and discomforted, and, a few days after, I heard that 
he had departed for London. He returned, however, in eight 
or nine weeks, and, did not entirely keep aloof from me, but 
comported himself in «60 remarkable a .manner, that his quick- 
sighted sister could not fail to notice the change. 

“ What have you done to Walter, Mrs. Huntingdon]” said 
she one morning, when I had called at the Grove, and he had 
just left the room, after exchanging a few words of the coldest 
civility. “ He has been so extremely ceremonious and stately 
of late, I can’t imagine what k is all about, unless you have 
desperately offended him. Tell me what it is, that I may be 
your mediator, and make you friends again.” 

“ I have done nothing willingly to offend him,” said I. “ If 
he is offended he can best tell you himself what it is about.” 

“ I’ll ask him,” cried the giddy girl, springing up and putting 
her head out of the window; “he’s only in the garden- 
Walter!” 

“ No, no, Esther ! you will seriously displease me if you do ; 
and I shall leave you immediately, and not come again for 
months — perhaps years.” 

“ Did you call, Esther]” said her brother, approaching the 
window from without. 

“ Yes ; I wanted to ask you — ” 

“ Good morning, Esther,” said I, taking her hand, and giving 
it a severe squeeze. 

“ To ask you,” continued she, “to get me a rose for Mrs. 
Huntingdon.” He departed. “Mrs. Huntingdon,” she ex 
claimed, turning to me and still holding me fast by the hand. 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


279 


“ I’m quite shocked at you ! You’re just as angry, and distant, 
and cold as he is ; and I’m determined you shall be as good 
friends as ever, before you go.” 

“ Esther, how can you be so rude !” cried Mrs. Hargrave, 
who was seated gravely knitting in her easy chair. “ Surely, 
you never will learn to conduct yourself like a lady.” 

“Well, mamma, you said yourself — ” But the young lady 
was silenced by the uplifted finger of her mamma, accompanied 
by a very stern shake of the head. 

“ Isn’t she cross ]” whispered she to me ; but before I could 
add my share of reproof, Mr. Hargrave reappeared at the win- 
dow with a beautiful moss rose in his hand. 

“ Here, Esther, I’ve brought you the rose,” said he, extending 
it toward her. 

“ Give it her yourself, you blockhead !” cried she, recoiling 
with a spring from between us. 

“ Mrs. Huntingdon would rather receive it from you,” replied 
he, in a very serious tone, but lowering his voice that his mother 
might not hear. His sister took the rose and gave it to me. 

“ My brother’s compliments, Mrs. Huntingdon, and he hopes 
you and he will come to a better understanding by and by.-^ 
Will that do, Walter'?” added the saucy girl, turning to him 
and putting her arm round his neck, as he stood leaning upon 
the sill of the vdndow — “ or should I have said that you were 
soiTy you were so touchy % or that you hope she will pardon 
your offense 1” 

“ You silly girl ! you don’t know what you are talking abotlt,” 
replied he, gravely. 

“ Indeed, I don’t; for I am quite in the dark.” 

“ Now, Esther,” interposed Mrs. Hargrave, who, if equally 
benighted on the subject of our estrangement, saw at least that 
her daughter was behaving veiy improperly, “ I must insist upon 
your leaving the room.” 

“ Pray don’t, Mrs. Hargrave, for I’m going to leave it myself,” 
said I, and immediately made my adieus. 

About a week after, Mr. Hargrave brought his sister to kee 
me. He conducted himself, at first, with his usual cold, distant, 
half-stately, half-melancholy, altogether injured air ; but Esther 
made no remark upon it this time; she had evidently been 
schooled into better manners. She talked to me, and laughed 
and romped with little Arthur, her loved and loving playmate. 
He, somewhat to my discomfort, enticed her from the room to 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


280 


have a run in the hall ; and thence into the garden. I got up 
to stir the fire. Mr. Hargrave asked if I felt cold*, and shut 
the door — a very unseasonable piece of officiousness, for I had 
meditated following the noisy playfellows, if they did not speed- 
ily return. He then took the liberty of walking up to the fire 
himself, and asking me if I were aware that Mr. Huntingdon 
was now at the seat of Lord Lowborough, and likely to continue 
there some time. 

“ No ; but it’s no matter,” I answered, carelessly ; and if my 
cheek glowed like fire, it was rather at the question than the 
information it conveyed. 

“ You don’t object to it he said. 

“ Not at all, if Lord Lowborough likes his company.” 

“ You have no love left for him, then '1” 

“ Not the least.” 

“ I knew that. I knew you were too high-minded and pure 
in your own nature to -continue to regard one so utterly false 
and polluted, with any feelings but those of indignation and 
scornful abhorrence.” 

“ Is he not your friend V* said I, tuniing my eyes from the fire 
to his face, with perhaps a slight touch of those feelings he 
assigned to another. 

“ He was'^ replied he, with the same calm gravity as before, 
“ but do not wrong me by supposing that I could continue my 
friendship and este'em to a man who could so infamously — so 
impiously forsake and injure one so transcendently — well, I 
won’t speak of it. But tell me, do you never think of revenge ]” 

“ Revenge ! No ! What good would that do ; it would make 
him no better, and me no happier.” 

“ I don’t know how to talk to you, Mrs. Huntingdon,” said 
he, smiling. “You are only half a woman — your nature must 
be half human, half angelic. Such goodness overawes me ; I 
don’t know what to make of it.” 

“ Then, sir, I fear you must be very much worse than you 
should be, if I, a mere ordinary mortal, am by your own con- 
fession, so vastly your superior ; and since there exists so little 
sympathy between us, I think we had better each look out for 
some more congenial companion.” And forthwith moving to the 
window, I began to look out for my little son and his gay young 
friend. 

“ No, I am the ordinary mortal, I maintain,” replied Mr. 
Hargrave. “ I will not allow myself to be worse than my fel- 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


281 


lows ; but you, madam — I equally maintain there is nobody like 
you. But are you happy he asked in a serious tone. 

“ As happy as some others, I suppose.” 

“ Are you as happy as you desire to be 

“ No one is so blest as that comes to, on this side eternity.” 

“ One thing I know,” returned he, with a deep, sad sigh ; 
“ you are immeasurably happier than I am.” 

“ I am very sorry for you, then,” I could not help replying. 

“ Are you indeed ? No — for if you were, you would be glad 
to relieve me.” 

“ And so I should, if I could do so, without injuring myself 
or any other.” 

“ And can you suppose that 1 should wish you to injure your- 
self] No ; on the contrary^ it is your own happiness I long for, 
more than mine. You are miserable now, Mrs. Huntingdon,” 
continued he, looking me boldly in the face. “ You do not com- 
plain, but I see, and feel, and know that you are miserable — and 
must remain so, as long as you keep those walls of impenetrable 
ice about your still warm and palpitating heart; — and I am 
miserable too. Deign to smile on me, and I am happy. Trust 
me, and you shall be happy also ; for if you are a woman I can 
make you so — and I will do it in spite of yourself,” he muttered 
between his teeth ; “ and as for others, the question is between 
ourselves alone. You can not injure your husband, you know; 
and no one else has any concern in the matter.” 

“ I have a son, Mr. Hargi’ave, and you have a mother,” said 
I, retiring from the window, whither he had followed me. 

“ They need not know,” he began, but before any thing more 
could be said on either side, Esther and Arthur re-entered the 
room. The former glanced at Walter’s flushed, excited coun- 
tenance, and then at mine — a little flushed and excited too, I 
dare say, though from far different causes. She must have thought 
we had been quarreling desperately, and she was evidently per- 
plexed and disturbed at the circumstance; but was too polite, 
or too much afraid of her brother’s anger to refer to it. She 
seated herself on the sofa, and putting back her bright, golden 
ringlets, that were scattered in wild profusion over her face, she 
immediately began to talk about the garden and her little play- 
fellow, and continued to chatter away in her usual strain till her 
brother summoned her to depart. 

“ If I have spoken too warmly, forgive me,” he murmured 
(uj taking his leave, “ or I shall never forgive myself” 


282 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


Esther smiled and glanced at me : I merely bowed, and her 
countenance fell. She thought it a poor return for Walter’s 
generous concession, and was disappointed in her friend. Poor 
child, she little knows the world she lives in ! 

Mr. Hargrave had not an opportunity of meeting me again 
in piivate for several weeks after this ; but when he did meet 
me, there was less of pride and more of touching melancholy in 
his manner than before. Oh, Tiow he annoyed me ! I was 
obliged, at last, almost entirely to remit my visits to the Grove, 
at the expense of deeply offending Mrs. Hargrave and seriously 
afflicting poor Esther, who really values my society — for want 
of better; and who ought not to suffer for the fault of her 
brother. But that indefatigable foe was not yet vanquished : 
he seemed to be always on the watch. I frequently saw him 
riding lingeringly past the premises, looking searchingly round 
him as he went ; or if 7 did not, Rachel did. That sharp-sighted 
woman soon guessed how matters stood between us, and descry- 
ing the enemy’s movements from her elevation at the nursery 
window, she would give me a quiet intimation, if she saw me 
preparing for a walk when she had reason to believe he was 
about, or to think it likely that he would meet or overtake me 
in the way I meant to traverse. I would then defer my ram- 
ble, or confine myself for that day to the park and gardens ; or 
if the proposed excursion was a matter of importance, such as 
a visit to the sick. or afflicted, I would take Rachel with me, 
and then I was never molested. 

But one mild, sunshiny day, early in November, I had ven- 
tured forth alone, to visit the village school and a few of the 
poor tenants, and on my return, I was alarmed at the clatter of 
a horse’s feet behind me approaching at a rapid, steady trot. 
There was no stile or gap at hand, by which I could escape 
into the fields : so I walked quietly on, saying to myself — 

“ It may not be he after all ; and if it is, and if he do annoy 
me — it shall be for the last time — I am determined, if there be 
power in words and looks against cool impudence and mawkish 
sentimentality so inexhaustible as his.” 

The horse soon overtook me, and was reined up close beside 
me. It was Mr. Hargrave. He greeted me with a smile in- 
tended to be soft and melancholy, but his triumphant satisfac- 
tion at having caught me at last, so shone through, that it was 
quite a failure. After briefly answering his salutation and 
inquiring after tbe ladies at the Grove, I turned away and 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


‘ 28 ;l 


walked on ; but he followed, and kept his horse at my side : 
it was evident he intended to be my companion all the way. 

“ Well ! I don’t much care. If you want another rebuff, 
take it — and welcome,” was my inward remark. “ Now, sir, 
what next 

This question, though unspoken, was not long unanswered. 
After a few passing observations upon indifferent subjects, he 
began, in solemn tones, the following appeal to my humanity : — 

“ It will be four years next April since I first saw you, Mrs. 
Huntingdon ; you may have forgotten the circumstance, but 1 
never can. I admired you then most deeply, but I dared not 
love you. In the following autumn, I saw so much of your per- 
fections that I could not fail to love you, though I dared not 
show it. For upward of three years, I have endured a perfect 
martyrdom. From the anguish of suppressed emotions, intense 
and fruitless longings, silent sorrow, crushed hopes, and tram- 
pled affections — I have suffered more than I can tell, or you 
imagine — and you were the cause of it — and not, altogether, the 
innocent cause. My youth is wasting away ; my prospects are 
darkened ; my life is a desolate blank ; I have no rest day or 
night ; I am become a burden to myself and others : and you 
might save me by a word — a glance, and will not do it. Is 
this right]” 

“In the first place, I don’t believe you,” answered I: “in 
the second, if you will be such a fool, I can’t hinder it.” 

“ If you affect,” replied he earnestly, to regard as folly, the 
best, the strongest, the most godlike impulses of our nature — 1 
don’t believe you. I know you are not the heartless, icy being 
you pretend to be. You had a heart once, and you gave it to 
your husband. When you found him utterly unworthy of the 
treasure .you reclaimed it ; and you will not pretend that you 
loved that sensual, earthly minded profligate so deeply, so de- 
votedly, that you can never love another ] I know that there 
are feelings in your nature that have never yet been called forth 
— I know, too, that in your present neglected, lonely state you 
are, and must be miserable. You have it in your power to 
raise two human beings from a state of actual suffering to such 
unspeakable beatitude as only generous, noble, self-forgetting 
love can give, for you can love me if you will ; you may tell me 
that you scorn and detest me, but — since you have, set me the 
example of plain speaking — I will answer that I do not believe 
you ! but you will not do it ! you choose rather to leave us 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


28 i 


miserable ; and you coolly tell me it is the will of God that we 
should remain so. You may call this religion, but I call it wild 
fanaticism !” 

“ There is another life both for you and for me,” said I. “ If 
it be the will of God that we should sow in tears now, it is only 
that we may reap in joy hereafter. It is his will that we should 
not injure others by the gratification of our own earthly passions; 
and you have a mother, and sisters, and fi’iends, who would 
be seriously injured by your disgrace ; and I too have friends, 
whose peace of mind shall never be sacrificed to my enjoyment 
— or yours either, with my consent. And if I were alone in the 
world, I have still my God and my religion, and I would sooner 
die than disgrace my calling and break my faith with Heaven 
to obtain a few brief years of false and fleeting happiness — hap- 
piness sure to end in misery, even here — for myself or any 
other !” 

“ There need be no disgrace — no misery or sacrifice in any 
quarter,” persisted he. “I do not ask you to leave your home 
or defy the world’s opinion.” — But I need not repeat all his ar- 
guments. I refuted them to the best of my power ; but that 
power was provokingly small, at the moment, for I was too 
much flurried with indignation — and even shame — that he 
should thus dare to address me, to retain sufficient command 
of thought and language to enable me adequately to contend 
against his powerful sophistries. Finding, however, that he 
could not be silenced by reason, and even covertly exulted in 
his seeming advantage, and ventured to deride those assertions 
I had not the coolness to prove, I changed my course and tried 
another plan. 

“ Ho you really love me ]” said I seriously, pausing and 
looking him calmly in the face. 

“ Do I love you !” cried he. 

“ Truly V I demanded. 

His countenance brightened ; he thought his triumph was at 
hand. He commenced a passionate protestation of the truth 
and fervor of his attachment, which I cut short by another 
question : — 

“But is it not a selfish love? — have you enough of disinterest- 
ed affection to enable you to sacrifice your own pleasure to 
mine ?” 

“ I would give my life to serve you.” 

“ I don’t want your life — but have you enough real sympathy 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


285 


for rny afflictions to induce you to make an effort to relievo 
them, at the risk of a little discomfort to yourself?” 

“ Try me, and see !” 

“ If you have — never mention this subject again. You can 
not recur to it in any way, without doubling the weight of those 
sufferings you so feelingly deplore. I have nothing left me but 
the solace of a good conscience and a hopeful trust in Heaven, 
and you labor continually to rob me of these. If you persist, I 
must regard you as my deadliest foe.” 

“ But hear me a moment — ” 

“ No, sir ! you said you woul4 give your life to serve me : I 
only ask your silence on one particular point. I have spoken 
plainly; and what I say I mean. If you torment me in this 
way any more, I must conclude that your protestations are en- 
tirely false, and that you hate me in your heart as fervently as 
you profess to love me !” 

He bit his lip, and bent his eyes upon the ground in silence 
for a while. 

“ Then I must leave you,” said he at length, looking steadily 
upon me, as if with the last hope of detecting some token of 
irrepressible anguish or dismay awakened by those solemn 
woi ds. “ I must leave you. I can not live here, and be forever 
silent on the all-absorbing subject of my thoughts and wishes.” 

“ Formerly, I believe, you spent but little of your time at 
nome,” I answered : “ it will do you no harm to absent your- 
self again, for a while — if that be really necessary.” 

“ If that be really possible,''^ he muttered — “ and can you bid 
me go so coolly ! Do you really wish it ?” 

“ Most certainly I do. If you can not see me without tor- 
menting me as you have lately done, I would gladly say fare- 
well, and never see you more.” 

He made no answer, but, bending from his horse, held out 
/lis hand toward me. I looked up at his face, and saw therein 
such a look of genuine agony of soul that, whether bitter disap- 
pointment, or wounded pride, or lingering love, or burning 
wrath were uppermost, I could not hesitate to put my hand in 
his as frankly as if I bade a friend farewell. He grasped it 
very hard, and immediately put spurs to his horse and gal- 
loped away. Very soon after, I learned that he was gone to 
Paris, where he still is, and the longer he stays there the better 
for me. 

I thank God for this deliverance ! 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

THE INJURED MAN. 

December 20th, 1826. — The fifth anniversary of my wedding 
day, and I trust, the last I shall spend under this roof. My 
resolution is formed, my plan concocted, and already partly put 
in execution. My conscience does not blame me, but while 
the purpose ripens, let me beguile a few of these long winter 
evenings in stating the case for my own satisfaction — a dreary 
amusement enough, but having the air of a useful occupation, 
and being pursued as a task, it will suit me better than a lighter 
one. 

In September, quiet Grassdale was again alive with a party 
of ladies and gentlemen (so called) consisting of the same indi- 
viduals as those invited the year before last, with the addition of 
two or three others, among whom w^ere Mrs. Hargrave and her 
younger daughter. The gentlemen and Lady Lowborough were 
invited for the pleasure and convenience of the host, the other 
ladies, I suppose for the sake of appearances ; and to keep me 
in check, and make me discreet and civil in my demeanor. But 
the ladies stayed only three weeks, the gentlemen, with two ex- 
ceptions, above two months, for their hospitable entertainer was 
loth to part with them and be left alone with his bright intel- 
lect, his stainless conscience, and his loved and loving wife. 

On the day of Lady Lowborough’s anival, I followed her into 
her chamber, and plainly told her that, if I found reason to be- 
lieve that she still continued her criminal connection with Mr. 
Huntingdon, I should think it my absolute duty to inform her 
husband of the circumstance, or awaken his suspicions at least, 
however painful it might be, or however dreadful the conse- 
quences. She was startled at first, by the declaration, so unex- 
pected, and so determinately yet calmly delivered ; but rallying 
in a moment, she coolly replied that if I saw any thing at all 
reprehensible or suspicious in her conduct, she would freely give 
me leave to tell his lordship all about it. Willing to be satisfied 
with this, I left her ; and certainly I saw nothing thenceforth 
partifjularly reprehensible or suspicious in her demeanor toward 
her host ; but then I had the other guests to attend to, and I did 
not watch them narrowly — ^for, to confess the truth, I feared to 
see any thing between them. I no longer regarded it as any 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


287 


concern of mine, and if it was my duty to enlighten Lord Low- 
borough, it was a painful duty, and I dreaded to be called to 
perform it. 

But my fears were brought to an end, in a manner I had not 
anticipated. One evening, about a fortnight after the visitors’ 
arrival, I had retired into the library to snatch a few minutes’ 
respite from forced cheerfulness and wearisome discourse — for 
after so long a period of seclusion, dreary indeed, as I had 
often found it, I could not always bear to be doing violence to 
my feelings, and goading my powers to talk, and smile and 
listen, and play the attentive hostess — or even the cheerful 
friend: — I had just ensconced myself within the bow of the win- 
dow, and was looking out upon the west where the darkening 
hills rose sharply defined against the clear amber light of even- 
ing, that gradually blended and faded away into the pure, pale 
blue of the upper sky, where one bright star was shining through,^ 
as if to promise — “ When that dying light is gone, the world 
will not be left in darkness, and they who trust in God — whose 
minds are unbeclouded by the mists of unbelief and sin — are 
never wholly comfortless” — when I heard a hurried step ap- 
proaching, and Lord Lowborough entered — this room was still 
his favorite resort. He flung the door to with unusual violence, 
and cast his hat aside regardless where it fell. What could be 
the matter with him ^ His face was ghastly pale ; his eyes 
were fixed upon the ground : his teeth clenched ; his forehead 
glistened with the dews of agony. It was plain he knew his 
wrongs at last ! 

Unconscious of my presence, he began to pace the room in 
a state of fearful agitation, violently wringing his hands and 
uttering low gi'oans or incoherent ejaculations. I made a move- 
ment to let him know that he was not alone ; but he was too 
pre-occupied to notice it. Perhaps, while his back was toward 
me, I might cross the room and slip away unobserved. I rose 
to make the attempt, but then he perceived me. He started, 
and stood still a moment ; then wiped his streaming forehead, 
and advancing toward me with a kind of unnatural composure, 
said in a deep, almost sepulchral tone — 

“ Mrs. Huntingdon, I must leave you to-morrow.” 

“ To-morrow !” I repeated, “ I do not ask the cause.” 

“ You know it then — and you can be so calm !” said he, sur- 
veying me with profound astonishment, not unmirigled with a 
kind of resentful bitterness, as it appeared to me. 


288 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ I have so long been aware of — ’’ I paused in time, and 
added, “ of my husband’s character, that nothing shocks me.” 

“But this — how long have you been aware of this*?” de- 
manded he, laying his clenched hand on the table beside him, 
and looking me keenly and fixedly in the face. 

I felt like a criminal. 

“ Not long,” I answered. 

“ You knew it !” cried he, with bitter vehemence — “ and you 
did not tell me ! You helped to deceive me !” 

' “ My lord, I did not help to deceive you.” 

“ Then why did you not tell me 1” 

“ Because, I knew it would be painful to you — I hoped that 
she would return to her duty, and then there would be no need 
to harrow ypur feelings with such — ” 

“ O God ! how long has this been going on ] how long has it 
been, Mrs. Huntingdon? Tell*me — I must know!” he ex- 
claimed with intense and fearful eagerness. 

“ Two years, I believe.” 

“ Great Heaven 1 and has she duped me all this time I” He 
turned away with a suppressed groan of agony, and paced the 
room again, in a paroxysm of renewed agitation. My heart 
smote me ; but I would try to console him, though I knew not 
how to attempt it. 

“She is a wicked woman,” I said. “She has basely deceived 
, and betrayed you. She is as little worthy of your regret as she 
was cf your affection. Let her not injure you farther; abstract 
yours(jlf from her, and stand alone.” 

“ And you, madam,” said he steraly, arresting his walk and 
tuiTiing round upon me — “ you have injured me too, by this 
ungenerous concealment 1” 

There was a sudden revulsion in my feelings. Something 
rose within me, and urged me to resent this harsh return for my 
heartfelt sympathy, and defend myself with answering severity. 
Happily, I did not yield to the impulse. I saw his anguish as 
suddenly smiting his forehead, he turned abruptly to the win- 
dow, and, looking upward at the placid sky, murmured pas- 
sionately, “ O God, that I might die 1” and felt that to add one 
drop of bitterness to that already ovei-flowing cup, would be 
ungenerous indeed. And yet, I fear there was more coldness 
than gentleness in the quiet tone of my reply : 

“ I might offer many excuses that some would admit to be 
valid, but I will not attempt to enumerate them — ” 


THE TENANT OF vVILDFELL HALL. 


289 


“ I know them,” said he hastily, “ you would say that it was 
no business of yours — that I ought to have taken care of myself 
— that if my own blindness has led me into this pit of hell, I 
have no right to blame another for giving me credit for a larger 
amount of sagacity than I possessed — ” 

“ I confess I was wrong,” continued I, without regarding this 
bitter inteiTuption ; “ but whether want of courage or mistaken 
kindness was the cause of my error, I think you blame me too 
severely. I told Lady Lowborough two weeks ago, the very 
hour she came, that I should certainly think it my duty to inform 
you if she continued to deceive you ; she gave me full liberty to 
do so if I should see any thing reprehensible or suspicious in her 
conduct — I have seen nothing ; and I trusted she had altered 
her course.” 

He continued gazing from the window while I spoke, and did 
not answer, but, stung by the recollections my words awakened, 
stamped his foot upon the floor, ground his teeth, and corrugated 
his brow, like one under the influence of acute physical pain. 

“ It was wrong — it was wrong !” he muttered, at length. 
“ Nothing can excuse it — nothing can atone for it — for nothing 
can recall those years of cursed credulity — nothing obliterate 
them! nothing, nothing!” he repeated in a whisper, whose 
despairing bitterness precluded all resentment.” 

“ When I put the case to myself, I own it was wrong,” I an- 
swered ; “ but I can only now regret that I did not see it in 
this light before, and that, as you say, nothing can recall the 
past.” 

Something in my voice or in the spirit of this answer seemed 
to alter his mood. Tuniing toward me and attentively survey- 
ing my face by the dim light, he said, in a milder tone than he 
had yet employed — 

“You, too, have suffered much, I suppose.” 

“ I suffered much, at first.” 

“ When was that 1” 

“ Two years ago ; and two years hence you will be as calm 
as I am now — and far, far happier, I trust, for you are a man, 
and free to act as you please.” 

Something like a smile, but a very bitter one, crossed his face 
for a moment. 

“ You have not been happy lately 1” he said, with a kind of 
effort to regain composure, and a determination to waive the 
further discussion of his own calamity. 

N 




THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ Happy !” I repeated, almost provoked at such a question — 
“ Could I be so, with such a husband*?” 

“ I have noticed a change in your appearance since the first 
years of your marriage,” pursued he : “I observed it to — to 
that infernal demon,” he muttered between his teeth, “ and he 
said it was your own spur temper that was eating away your 
bloom : it was making you old and ugly before your time, and 
had already made his fire-side as comfortless as a convent cell. 
You smile Mrs. Huntingdon — nothing moves you. I wish ray 
nature were as calm as yours 1” 

“ My nature was not ox’iginally calm,” said I : “I have 
learned to appear so by dint of hard lessons, and many repeated 
effoits.” ^ 

At this juncture Mr. Hattersley burst into the room. 

“Hallow, Lowborough!” he began. “Oh! I beg your par- 
don,” he exclaimed, on seeing me ; “I didn’t know it was a 
tete-a-tete. Cheer up, man 1” he continued, giving Lord Low- 
borough a thump on the back, which caused the latter to recoil 
from him with looks of ineffable disgust and irritation. “ Come, 
I want to speak with you a bit.” 

“ Speak, then.” 

“ But I’m not sure it would be quite agi'eeable to the lady, 
what I have to say.” 

“ Then it would not be agreeable to me,” said his lordship, 
turning to leave the room. 

“ Yes, it would,” cried the other, following him into the hall. 
“ If you’ve the heart of a man it would be the very ticket for 
you. It’s just this, my lad,” he continued, rather lowering his 
voice, but not enough to prevent me from hearing every word 
he said, though the half-closed door stood between us : “I think 
you’re an ill-used man — nay, now, don’t flare up — I don’t want 
to offend you : it’s only my rough way of talking. I must speak 
right out, you know, or else not at all ; and I’m come — stop 
now 1 let me explain — I’m come to offer you my services, for 
though Huntingdon is my friend, he’s a devilish scamp, as we 
all know, and I’ll be your friend for the nonce. I know what it 
is you want, to make matters straight : it’s just to exchange a 
shot with. him, and then you’ll feel yourself all right again ; and 
if an accident happens — why, that’ll be all right too, I dare say, 
to a desperate fellow like you. Come now! give me your hand, 
and don’t look so black upon it. Name time and place, and 
I’ll manage the rest.” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


291 


“ That,” answered the more low, deliberate voice of Lord 
Lowborough, “is just the remedy my own heart — or the devil 
within it, suggested — to meet him, and not to sever without blood. 
Whether I or he should fall — or both, it would be an inexpres- 
sible relief to me, if — ” 

“ Just so ! Well then — ” 

“ No!” exclaimed his lordship with deep, determined empha- 
sis. “ Though I hate him from my heart, and should rejoice at 
any calamity that could befall him — I’ll leave him to God ; and 
though I abhor my own life. I’ll leave that, too, to Him that 
gave it.” 

“ But you see in this case,” pleaded Hattersley — 

“ I’ll not hear you I” exclaimed his companion, hastily turn- 
ing away. “ Not another word ! I’ve enough to do against the 
fiend within me.” 

“ Then you’re a white livered fool, and I wash my hands of 
you,” grumbled the tempter, as he swung himself round and 
departed. 

“ Right, right. Lord Lowborough!” cried I, darting out and 
clasping his burning hand, as he was moving away to the stairs. 
“ I begin to think the world is not worthy of you !” 

Not understanding this sudden ebullition, he turned upon me 
with a stare of gloomy, bewildered amazement that made me 
ashamed of the impulse to which I had yielded ; but soon a 
more humanized expression dawned upon his countenance, and, 
before I could withdraw my hand, he pressed it kindly, while 
a gleam of genuine feeling flashed from his eyes as he mur- 
mured — 

“ God help us both !” 

“ Amen !” responded I ; and we parted. 

I returned to the drawing-room, where, doubtless, my pres- 
ence would be expected by most, desired by one or two. In 
the ante-room was Mr. Hattersley, railing against Lord Low- 
borough’s poltroonery before a select audience, viz. Mr. Hun- 
tingdon, who was lounging against the table exulting in his 
own treacherous villainy, and laughing his victim to scorn, and 
Mr. Grimbsy, standing by, quietly rubbing his hands and chuck- 
ling with fiendish satisfaction. At the glance I gave them in 
passing, Hattersley stopped short in his animadversions and 
stared like a bull-calf, Grimsby glowered upon me with a leer 
of malignant ferocity, and my husband muttered a coarse and 
brutal malediction. 


TM.*; TENANT OF VVILDFELL HALL. 


2\)2 


In the drawing-room I found Lady Lowborough, evidently 
in no very enviable state of mind, and struggling hard to con- 
ceal her discomposure by an overstrained affectation of unusual 
cheerfulness and vivacity, very uncalled for under the circum- 
stances, for she had herself given the company to.understand 
that her husband had received unpleasant intelligence from 
home, which necessitated his immediate dejDarture, and that he 
had suffered it so to bother his mind that it had brought on 
a bilious headache, owing to which and the preparations he 
judged necessary to hasten his departure, she believed they 
would not have the pleasure of seeing him to-night. However, 
she asserted, it was only a business concern, and she did not 
intend it should trouble her. She was just saying this as I 
entered, and she darted upon me such a glance of hardihood 
and defiance as at once astonished and revolted me. 

“ But 1 am troubled,” continued she, “ and vexed too, for I 
think it my duty to accompany his lordship, and of course I am 
very sorry to part with all my kind friends, so unexpectedly 
and so soon.” 

“ And yet, Annabella,” said Esther, who was sitting beside 
her, “ I never saw you in better spirits in my life.” 

“ Precisely so, my love ; because I wish to make the best of 
your society, since it appears this is to be the last night I am to 
enjoy it, till Heaven knows when ; and I wish to leave a good 
impression on you all.” — She glanced round, and seeing her 
aunt’s eye fixed upon her, rather too scrutinizingly, as she 
probably thought, she started up and continued: — “to which 
end I’ll give you a song. — Shall I, aunt % shall I, Mrs. Hunting- 
don ] shall I, ladies, and gentlemen — all ? — Very well. I’ll do 
my best to amuse you.” 

She and Lord Lowborough occupied the apartments next to 
mine. I know not how she passed the night, but I lay awake 
the greater part of it listening to his heavy step pacing mono- 
tonously up and down his dressing-room, which was nearest 
my chamber. Once I heard him pause and throw something 
out of the window, with a passionate ejaculation ; and in the 
morning, after they were gone, a keen bladed clasp knife was 
found on the grass-plot below ; a razor, likewise was snapped 
m two, thrust deep into the cinders of the grate, but partially 
corroded by the decaying embers. So strong had been the 
temptation to end his miserable life, so determined his resolu- 
tion to resist it. 


THE TENANT OF VVILDFELL HALL. 


293 


My heart bled for him, as I lay listening to that ceaseless tread. 
Hitherto, I had thought too much of myself, too little of him : 
now I forgot my own afflictions, and thought only of his — of the 
ardent affection so misex’ably wasted, the fond faith so cruelly 
betrayed, the — no, I will not attempt to enumerate his wrongs, 
but I hated his wife and my husband more intensely than ever, 
and not for my sake but for his. 

“ That man,” I thought, “ is an object of scorn to his friends 
and the nice-judging world. The false wife and the treacherous 
friend who have wronged him are not so despised and degraded 
as he ; and his refusal to avenge his wrongs has removed him 
yet farther beyond the range of. sympathy, and blackened his 
name with a deeper disgrace. He knows this, and it doubles 
his burden of wo. He sees the injustice of it, but he can not 
bear up against it; he lacks that sustaining power of self-esteem 
which leads a man, exulting in his own integrity, to defy the 
malice of traducing foes, and give them scorn for scorn — or, bet- 
ter still, which raises him above earth’s foul and turbulent vapors, 
to repose in Heaven’s eternal sunshine. He knows that God is 
just, but can not see his justice now : he knows this life is short, ' 
and yet death seems insufferably far away ; he believes there is 
a future state, but so absorbing is the agony of this that he can 
not realize its rapturous repose. He can but bow his head to 
the storm, and cling, blindly, despairingly, to what he knows to 
be right. Like the shipwrecked mariner cleaving to a raft, 
blinded, deafened, bewildered, he feels the waves sweep over 
him, and sees no prospect of escape ; and yet he knows he has 
no hope but this, and still, wh'ile life and sense remain, concen- 
trates all his energies to keep it. Oh, that I had a friend’s right 
to comfort him, and tell him that I never esteemed him so highly 
as I do this night !” 

They departed early in the morning before any one else was 
down, except myself, and, just as I was leaving my room. Lord 
Lowborough was descending to take his place in the carriage 
where his lady was already ensconced ; and Arthur (or Mr. 
Huntingdon, as I prefer calling him, for the other is my child’s 
name) had the gratuitous insolence to come out in his dressing- 
gown to bid his “ friend” good-by. 

“ What, going already, Lowborough !” said he. “ Well, good- 
morning.” He smilingly offered his hand. 

I think the other would have knocked him down, had he not 
instinctively started back before that bony fist, quivering with 


294 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


rage, and clenched till the knuckles gleamed white and glisten- 
ing through the skin. Looking upon him with a countenance 
livid with furious hate, Lord Lowborough muttered between his 
closed teeth, a deadly execration he would not have uttered, 
had he been calm enough to choose his words, and departed. 

“ I call that an unchristian spirit now,” said the villain. “ But 
I’d never give up an old friend for the sake of a wife. You 
may have mine, if you like, and I call that handsome. I can do 
no more than offer restitution, can I 

But Lord Lowborough had gained the bottom of the stairs, 
and was now crossing the hall ; and Mr. Huntingdon, leaning 
over the bannisters, called buty* “ Give my love to Annabella ! — 
and I wish you both a happy journey !” and withdrew laughing 
to his chamber. 

He subsequently expressed himself rather glad she was gone : 
“ She was so deuced imperious and exacting,” said he : “ now 
1 shall be my own man again, and feel rather more at my 
ease.” 

I know nothing more of Lord Lowborough’s subsequent pro- 
ceedings but what I have heard from Milicent, who, though she 
is ignorant of the cause of his separation from her cousin, has 
informed me that such is the case ; that they keep entirely sep- 
arate establishments ; that she leads a gay, dashing life in town 
and country, while he lives in strict seclusion at his old castle in 
the north. There are two children, both of whom he keeps un- 
der his own protection. The son and heir is a promising child, 
nearly the age of my Arthur, and no doubt a source of some 
hope and comfort to his father ; but the other, a little girl be^ 
tween one and two, with blue eyes and light auburn hair, he 
probably keeps from conscientious motives alone, thinking it 
wrong tp abandon her to the teaching and example of such a 
woman as her mother. That mother never loved children, and 
has so little natural affection for her own, that I question whether 
she will not regard it as a relief to be thus entirely separated 
from them, and delivered from the trouble and responsibility of 
their charge. 

Not many days after the departure of Lord and Lady Low- 
borough, the rest of the ladies withdrew the light of their pres- 
ence from Grassdale. Perhaps they might have staid longer, 
but neither host nor hostess pressed them to prolong their visit 
— in fact, the former showed too plainly that he should be glad 
to get rid of them ; and Mrs. Hargrave retired with her daugh- 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL llALh. 


295 


ters and her grandchildren (there are three of them now) to the 
Grove. But the gentlemen remained : Mr. Huntingdon, as I 
intimated before, was determined to keep them as long as he 
could; and, being thus delivered from restraint, they gave a 
loose to all their innate madness, folly, and brutality, and made 
the house, night after night, one scene of riot, uproar, and con- 
fusion. Who among them behaved the worst, or who the best, 
I can not distinctly say ; for, from the moment I discovered how 
things would be, I formed the resolution of retreating up-stairs, 
or locking myself into the library the instant I withdrew from 
the dining-room, and not coming near them again till breakfast; 
but this I must say for Mr. Hargi-ave, that from all I could see 
of him, he was a model of decency, sobriety, and gentlemanly 
manners in comparison with the rest. 

He did not join the party till a week or ten days after the ar- 
rival of the other guests ; for he was still on the continent when 
they came, and I cherished the hope that he would not accept 
the invitation. Accept it he did, however ; but his conduct to- 
ward me, for the first few weeks, was exactly what I should 
have wished it to be — perfectly civil and respectful, without any 
affectation of despondency or dejection, and sufficiently distant 
without haughtiness, or any such remarkable stiffness or iciness 
of demeanor as might be calculated to disturb or puzzle his sis- 
ter, or call forth the investigation of his mother. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

A SCHEME OF ESCAPE. 

My greatest source of uneasiness, in this time of trial, was my 
son, whom his father and his father’s friends delighted to en- 
courage in all the embryo vices a little child can show, and to 
instnict in all the evil habits he could acquire — in a word, to 
“ make a man of him” w^as one of their staple amusements ; 
and I need say no more to justify my alarm on his account, and 
my detei-mination to deliver him, at any hazard, from the hands 
of such instructors. I first attempted to keep him always with 
me or in the nursery, and gave Rachel particular injunctions 
never to let him come doWn to dessert as long as these “gentle- 


296 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


men” staid; but it was no use; these orders were immediately 
countennanded and overruled by his father : he was not going 
to have the little fellow moped to death between an old nurse 
and a cursed fool of a mother. So the little fellow came down 
every evening, in spite of his cross mamma, and leamed to tip- 
ple wine like papa, to. swear like Mr. Hattersley, and to have 
his own way like a man, and sent mamma to the devil when 
she tried to prevent him. To see such things done with the 
roguish naivete of that pretty little child, and hear such things 
spoken by that small infantile voice, was as peculiarly piquant 
and irresistibly droll to them as it was inexpressibly distressing 
and painful to me; and when he had set the table in a roar, he 
would look round delightedly upon them all, and add his shrill 
laugh to theirs. But if that beaming blue eye rested on me, its 
light would vanish for a moment, and he would say, in some 
concern — “ Mamma, why don’t you laugh % Make her laugh, 
papa — she never will.” 

Hence, was I obliged to stay among these human brutes, 
watching an opportunity to get my child away from them, in- 
stead of leaving them immediately after the removal of the cloth, 
as I should always otherwise have done. He was never willing 
to go, and I frequently had to carry him away by force ; for 
which he thought me very cruel and unjust ; and sometimes 
his father would insist upon my letting him remain; and then, I 
would leave him to his kind friends, and retire to indulge my 
bitterness and despair alone, or to rack my brains for a remedy 
to this great evil. 

But here again, I must do Mr. Hargrave the justice to ac- 
knowledge that I never saw him laugh at the child’s misdemean- 
ors, nor heard him utter a word of encouragement to his aspi- 
rations after manly accomplishments. But when any thing very 
extraordinary was said or done by the infant profligate, I noticed, 
at times, a peculiar expression in his face, that I could neither 
interpret nor define — a slight twitching about the muscles of 
the mouth — a sudden flash in the eye, as he darted a sudden 
glance at the child and then at me ; and then, I could fancy 
there arose a gleam of hard, keen, somber satisfaction in his 
countenance at the look of impotent wrath and anguish he was 
too certain to behold in mine. But on one occasion, when Ar- 
thur had been behaving particularly ill, and Mr. Huntingdon 
and his guests had been particularly provoking and insulting to 
me in their encouragement of him, and I particularly anxious 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


297 


to get him out of the room, and on the very point of demeaning 
myself by a burst of uncontrollable passion — Mr. Hargrave 
suddenly rose from his seat, with an aspect of stern determina- 
tion, lifted the child from his father’s knee, where he was sitting 
half tipsy, cocking his head and laughing at me, and execrating 
me with words he little knew the meaning of — handed him out 
of the room, and setting him down in the hall, held the door 
open for me, gravely bowled as I withdrew, and closed it after 
me. I heard high words exchanged between him and his alrea- 
dy half-inebriated host as I departed, leading away my bewil- 
dered and disconcerted boy. 

But this should not continue; my child must not be abandoned 
to this corruption : better far that he should live in poverty and 
obscurity with a fugitive mother, than in luxury and affluence 
with such a father. These guests might not be with us long, 
but they would return again; and he, the most injurious of the 
whole, his child’s worst enemy, would still remain. I could en- 
dure it for myself, but for my son it must be borne no longer : 
the world’s opinion and the feelings of my friends must be alike 
unheeded here, at least alike unable to deter me from my duty. 
But where should I find an asylum, and how obtain subsistence 
for us both % Oh, I would take my precious charge at early 
dawn, take the coach to M — , flee to the port of — , cross the 
Atlantic, and seek a quiet, humble home in New England, 
where I would support myself and him by the labor of my 
hands. The pallet and the easel, my darling playmates once, 
must be my sober toil-fellows now. But was I sufficiently skill- 
ful as an artist to obtain my livelihood in a strange land, without 
friends and without recommendation? No; I must wait a lit- 
tle ; I must labor hard to improve my talent, and to produce 
something worth while as a specimen of my powers, something 
to speak favorably for me, whether as an actual painter or a 
teacher. Brilliant success, of course, I did not look for, but 
some degree of security from positive failure was indispensable 
— I must not take my son to starve. And then I must have 
money for the jouniey, the passage, and some little to support 
us in our retreat, in case I should be unsuccessful at first ; and 
not too little either, for who could tell how long I might have 
to struggle wdth the indifference or neglect of others, or my own 
inexperience, or inability to suit their tastes? 

What should I do then ? Apply to my brother, and explain 
my circumstances and my resolves to him ? No, no ; even if I 

N* 


298 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


told him all my grievances, which I should be very reluctant to 
* do, he would be certain to disapprove of the step : it would 
seem like madness to him, as it would to my uncle and aunt, or 
to Milicent. No; I must have patience, and gather a hoard of 
my own. Rachel should be my only confidant — I thought I 
could persuade her into the scheme ; and she should help me, 
first to find out a picture dealer in some distant town; then, 
through her means, I would privately sell what pictures I had 
on hand that would do for such a pui-pose, and some of those I 
should thereafter paint. Besides this, I would contrive to dis- 
pose of my jewels — not the family jewels, but the few I brought 
with me from home, and those my uncle gave me on my mar- 
riage. A few months’ arduous toil might well be borne by me, 
with such an end in view ; and in the interim, my son could not 
be much more injured than he was already. 

Having formed this resolution, I immediately set to work to 
accomplish it. I might possibly have been induced to wax 
cool upon it afterward, or perhaps to keep weighing the pros 
and cons in my mind, till the latter overbalanced the former, 
and I was driven to relinquish the project altogether, or delay 
the execution of it to an indefinite period, had not something 
occuiTed to confirm me in that determination — to which I still 
adhere, which I still think I did well to form, and shall do 
better to execute. 

Since Lord Lowborough’s departure, I had regarded the li- 
brary as entirely my own — a secure retreat at all hours of the 
day. None of our gentlemen had the smallest pretensions to a 
literary taste, except Mr. Hargrave ; and he, at present, was 
quite contented with the newspapers and periodicals of the day. 
And if, by any chance, he should look in here, I felt assured he 
would soon depart on seeing me, for, instead of becoming less 
cool and distant toward me, he had become decidedly more so 
since the departure of his mother and sisters, which was just 
what I wished. Here, then, I set up my easel, and here I 
worked at my canvas from daylight to dusk, with very little 
intermission, saving when pure necessity, or my duties to little 
Arthur called me away — for I still thought proper to devote 
some portion of every day exclusively to his instruction and 
amusement. But, contrary to my expectation, on the third 
morning, while I was thus employed, Mr. Hargrave did look in, 
and did not immediately withdraw on seeing me. He apologized 
for his intrusion, and said he was only come for a book ; ^tlt 


THE TENANT OF WILDFEEL HALL. 


29U 


when he had got it, he condescended to cast a glance over my 
picture. Being a man of taste, he had something to say on this 
subject, as well as another, and having modestly commented on 
it, without much encouragement from me, he proceeded to ex- 
patiate on the art in general. Receiving no encouragement in 
that either, he dropped it, but did not depart. 

“ You don’t give us much of your company, Mrs. Hunting- 
don,” observed he, after a brief pause, during which I went on 
coolly mixing and tempering my colors : “ and I can not wonder 
at it, for you must be heartily sick of us all. I myself am so 
thoroughly ashamed of my companions, and so weary of their 
irrational conversation and pursuits — now that there is no one 
to humanize them and keep them in check, since you have 
justly abandoned us to our own devices — that I think I shall 
presently withdraw from among them, probably within this week 
— and I can not suppose you will regret my departure.” 

He paused. I did not answer. 

“ Probably,” he added, with a smile, “ your only regret on 
the subject will be, that I do not take all my companions along 
with me. I flatter myself, at times, that though among them, I 
am not of them ; but it is natural that you should be glad to get 
rid of me. I may regret this, but I can not blame you for 
it.” 

“ I shall not rejoice at your departure, for you can conduct 
yourself like a gentleman,” said I, thinking it but right to make 
some acknowledgment for his good behavior, “ but I must 
confess I shall rejoice to bid adieu to the rest, inhospitable as it 
may appear.” 

“No one can blame you for such an avowal,” replied he 
gravely ; “ not even the gentlemen themselves, I imagine. I’ll 
just tell you,” he continued, as if actuated by a sudden resolu- 
tion, “ what was said last night in the dining-room, after you left 
us — perhaps you’ll not mind it, as you’re so very philosophical 
on certain points,” he added, with a slight sneer. “ They were 
talking about Lord Lowborough and his delectable lady, the 
cause of whose sudden departure is no secret among them ; 
and her character is so well known to them all, that, nearly re- 
lated to me as she is, I could not attempt to defend it — God 
curse me,” he muttered, par parentheses “ if I don’t have ven- 
geance for this ! If the villain must disgrace the family, must 
he blazon it abroad to every low-bred knave of his acquaint- 
ance ] — I beg your pardon, Mrs. Huntingdon. — Well, they were 


300 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


talking of these things, and some of them remarked, that, as she 
was separated from her husband, he might see her again when 
he pleased.” 

“ ‘ Thank you,’ said he ; * I’ve had enough of her for the 
present ; I’ll not trouble myself to see her, unless she comes 
to me.” 

“ ‘ Then what do you icaean to do, Huntingdon, when we’re 
gone V said Kalph Hattersley. “ Do you mean to turn from 
the error of your ways, and be a good husband, a good father 
and so forth — as I do, when I get shut of you and all these 
rollicking devils you call your friends ] I think it’s time ; and 
your wife is fifty times too good for you, you hnov)^— 

“ And he added some praise of you, which you would not 
thank me for repeating — nor him for uttering; proclaiming it 
aloud, as he did, without delicacy or discrimination, in an 
audience where it seemed profanation to utter your name — 
himself utterly incapable of understanding or appreciating your 
real excellencies. Huntingdon, meanwhile, sat quietly drinking 
his wine, or looking smilingly into his glass, and offering no in- 
terruption or reply, till Hattersley shouted out — 

“ ‘ Do you hear me, man 1’ 

“ ‘ Yes, go on,’ said he. 

“ ‘ Nay, I’ve done,’ replied the other : ‘ I only want to know 
if you intend to take my advice.’ 

“ ‘ What advice V 

“ ‘ To turn over a new leaf, you doubled-dyed scoundrel,’ 
shouted Ralph, ‘ and beg your wife’s pardon, and be a good 
boy for the future.’ * 

“ ‘ My wife ! what wife % I have no wife,’ replied Hunting- 
don, looking innocently up from his glass — ‘ or if I have, look 
you, gentlemen, I value her so highly that any one among you, 
that can fancy her, may have her and welcome — you may, by 
Jove, and my blessing into the bargain !’ 

“ I — hem — some one asked if he really meant what he said, 
upon which he solemnly swore he did, and no mistake. What 
do you think of that, Mrs. Huntingdon asked Mr. Hargrave, 
after a short pause, during which I had felt that he was keenly 
examining my half-averted face. 

“ I say,” replied I, calmly, “ that whst he prizes so lightly, 
will not be long in his possession.” 

“ You can not mean that you will break your heart and die 
for the detestable conduct of an infamous villain like that!” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


301 


“ By no means : my heart is too thoroughly dried to be 
broken in a hurry, and I mean to live as long as I can.” 

“ Will you leave him, then 
“ Yes.” 

“ When — and how 1” asked he, eagerly. 

“ When I am ready, and how I can manage it most effectually.^* 

“ But your child ]” 

“My child goes with me.” 

“ He will not allow it.” 

‘ I shall not ask him.” 

“ Ah, then it is a secret flight you meditate ! But with whom, 
Mrs. Huntingdon 1” 

“ With my son— and, possibly, his nurse.” 

“ Alone — and unprotected ! But where can you go ] what 
can you do 1 He will follow you and bring you back.” 

“ I have laid my plans too well for that. Let me once get 
clear of Grassdale, and I shall consider myself safe.” 

Mr. Hargrave advanced one step toward me, looked me in 
the face, and drew in his breath to speak ; but that look, that 
heightened color, that sudden sparkle of the eye made my 
blood rise in wrath : I abruptly turned away, and, snatching up 
my brush, began to dash away at my canvas with rather too 
much energy for the good of the picture. 

“ Mrs. Huntingdon,” said he with bitter solemnity, “ you are 
cruel — cruel to me — cruel to yourself.” 

“ Mr. Hargrave, remember your promise.” 

“ I must speak — my heart will burst if I don’t ! I have been 
silent long enough — and you must hear me !” cried he, boldly 
intercepting my retreat to the door. “ You tell me you owe 
no allegiance to your husband ; he openly declares himself 
weary of you, and calmly gives you up to any body that will 
take you ; you are about to leave him ; no one will believe that 
you go alone — all the world will say, ‘ She has left him at last, 
and who can wonder at it % Few can blame her, fewer still 
can pity him ; but who is the companion of her flight V Thus 
you will have no credit for your virtue (if you call it such) : 
even your best friends will not believe in it; because, it is 
monstrous, and not to be credited — but by those who suffer 
from the effects of it, such cruel torments that they know it to 
be indeed reality. But what can you do in the cold, rough 
world alone ? you, a young and inexperienced woman, deli- 
cately nurtured, and utterly — ” 


302 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ In a word, you would advise me to stay where I am,” in- 
terrupted I. “ Well, I’ll see about it.” 

“By all means y leave him!” cried he earnestly, “but not 
alone 1 Helen 1 let me protect you !” 

“ Never I while heaven spares my reason,” replied I, snatch- 
ing away the hand he had presumed to seize and press between 
his own. But he was in for it now ; he had fairly broken the 
barrier : he was completely roused, and determined to hazard 
all for victory. 

“I must not be' denied!” exclaimed he vehemently; and 
seizing both my hands, he held them very tight, but dropped 
upon his knee, and looked up in my face with a half-imploring, 
half-imperious gaze. “ You have no reason now : you are 
flying in the face of Heaven’s decrees. God has designed me 
to be your comfort and protector — I feel it — I know it as cer- 
tainly as if a voice from heaven declared, ‘ Ye twain shall be 
one flesh’ — and you spurn me fi*om you — ” 

“Let me go, Mr. Hargrave!” said I, sternly. But he only 
tightened his grasp. 

“ Let me go !” I repeated, quivering with indignation 

His face was almost opposite the window as he knelt. With 
a slight start, I saw him glance toward it ; and then a gleam of 
malicious triumph lit up his countenance. Looking over my 
shoulder, I beheld a shadow just retiring round the corner. 

“ That is Grimsby,” said he deliberately. “ He will report 
what he has seen to Huntingdon and all the rest, with such 
embellishments as he thinks proper. He has no love for you, 
Mrs. Huntingdon — no reverence for your sex — no belief in 
virtue — no admiration for its image. He will give such a ver- 
sion of this story as will leave no doubt at all about your 
character, in the minds of those who hear it. Your fair fame 
is gone ; and nothing that I or you can say can ever retrieve it. 
But give me the power to protect you, and show me the villain 
that dares to insult.” 

“ No one has ever dared to insult me as you are doing now,” 
said I, at length releasing my hands, and recoiling from him. 

“ I do not insult you,” cried he ; “I worship you. You are 
my angel — my divinity ! I lay my powers at your feet — and 
you must and shall accept them !” he exclaimed impetuously, 
starting to his feet. “ I will be your consoler and defender ! 
and if your conscience upbraid you for it, say I overcame you, 
and you could not choose but yield.” 


* THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


: 03 


I never saw a man so terribly excited. He precipitated him- 
self toward me. I snatched up my pallet-knife and held it 
against him. This startled him ; he stood and gazed at me in 
astonishment ; I dare say I looked as fierce and resolute as he. 
I moved to the bell and put my hand upon the cord. This 
tamed him still more. With a half-authoritative, half-deprecat- 
ing wave of the hand, he sought to deter me from ringing. 

“ Stand off, then !” said I. He stepped back. “ And listen to 
me : I don’t like you,” I continued, as deliberately and emphat- 
ically as I could, to give the greater efficacy to my words ; “ and 
if I were divorced from my husband — or if he were dead, 1 
would not maiTy you. There now ! I hope you’re satisfied.” 

His face grew blanched with anger. 

“ I am satisfied,” he replied with bitter emphasis, “ that you 
are the most cold-hearted, unnatural, ungrateful woman I ever 
yet beheld.” 

“ Ungrateful, sir 

“ Ungrateful.” 

“No, Mr. Hargrave ; I am not. For all the good you ever 
did me, or ever wished to do, I most sincerely thank you ; for 
all the evil you have done me, and all you would have done, T 
pray God to pardon you, and make you of a better mind.” 

Here the door was thrown open, and Messrs. Huntingdon 
and Hattersley appeared without. The latter remained in the 
hall, busy with his ramrod and his gun ; the former walked in, 
and stood with his back to the fire, surveying Mr. Hargrave and 
me, particularly the former, with a smile of insupportable mean- 
ing, accompanied, as it was, by the impudence of his brazen 
brow and the sly, malicious twinkle of his eye. 

“ Well, sir I” said Hargrave, interrogatively, and with the air 
of one prepared to stand on the defensive. 

“Well, sir,” returned his host. 

“We want to know if you’re at liberty to join us in a go at 
the pheasants, Walter,” interposed Hattersley from without. 
“ Come ! there shall be nothing shot besides, except a puss or 
two ; Til vouch for that.” 

Walter did not answer, but walked to the window to collect 
his faculties. Arthur uttered a low whistle, and followed him 
with his eyes. A slight flush of anger rose to Hargrave’s cheek; 
but in a moment he turned calmly round, and said carelessly — 

“ I came here to bid farewell to Mrs. Huntingdon, and tell 
her I must go to-morrow.” 


304 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ Humph ! You’re mighty sudden in your resolution. What 
takes you off so soon, may I ask 1” 

“ Business,” returned he, repelling the other’s incredulous 
sneer with a glance of scornful defiance. 

“Very good,” was the reply; and Hargrave walked away. 
Thereupon, Mr. Huntingdon,. gathering his coat laps under his 
arms, and setting his shoulder against the mantel-piece, turned 
to m^, and addressing me in a low voice, scarcdy above his 
breath, poured forth a volley of the vilest and gi'ossest abuse it 
was possible for the imagination to conceive or the tongue to 
utter. I did not attempt to interrupt him ; but my spirit kindled 
within me, and when he had done, I replied — 

“ If your accusation were true, Mr. Huntingdon, how dare 
you blame me 1” 

“ She’s hit it, by Jove !” cried Hattersley, rearing his gun 
• against the wall ; and, stepping into the room, he took his 
precious friend by the aim, and attempted to drag him away. 
“Come, my lad,” he muttered; “ true or false, you've no right 
to blame her, you know — nor him either ; after what you said 
last night. So come along.” 

There was something implied here that I could not endure. 

“ Dare you suspect me, Mr. Hattersley I” said I, almost beside 
myself with fury. 

“ Nay, nay, I suspect nobody. It’s all right — it’s all right. 
So come along, Huntingdon, you blackguard.” 

“She can’t deny it!” cried the gentleman thus addressed, 
grinning in mingled rage and triumph. “ She can’t deny it, if 
her life depended on it ;” and muttering some more abusive 
language, he walked into the hall, and took up his hat and gun 
from the table. 

“ I scorn to justify myself to you 1” said I. “ But you,” turn- 
ing to Hattersley, “ if you presume to have any doubts on the 
subject, ask Mr. Hargrave.” 

At this they simultaneously burst into a rude laugh that made 
my whole frame tingle to the fingers’ ends. 

“Where is he? I’ll ask him myself!” said I, advancing 
toward them. 

Suppressing a new burst of memment, Hattersley pointed to 
the outer door. It was half open. His brother-in-law w^as 
standing on the front without. 

“ Mr. Hargrave, will you please to step this way ?” said I. 

He turned and looked at me in gi’ave surprise. 


THE TENXNT of WILDFELL HALL. 


305 


“ Step this way, if you please !” I repeated, in so determined 
a manner that he could not, or did not choose to resist its au- 
thoiity. Somewhat reluctantly he ascended the steps' and ad- 
vanced a pace or two into the liall. 

“ And tell those gentlemen,” I continued— “ these mew, 
whether or not I yielded to your solicitations.” 

“ I don’t understand you, Mrs. Huntingdon.” 

“ You do understand me, sir ; and I charge you upon your 
honor as a gentleman (if you have any), to answer truly. Did 
I, or did I not ?” 

“ No,” muttered he, turning away. 

“ Speak up, sir ; they can’t hear you. Did I grant your 
request 1” 

“ You did not.” 

“No, I’ll be sworn she didn’t,” said Hattersley, “or he’d 
never look so black.” 

“ I’m willing to grant you the satisfaction of a gentleman, 
Huntingdon,” said Mr. Hargrave, calmly addressing his host, 
but with a bitter sneer upon his countenance. 

“ Go to the deuce !” replied the latter, with an impatient jerk 
of the head. Hargrave withdrew with a look of cold disdain, 
saying — 

“ You know where to find me, should you feel disposed to 
send a friend.” 

Muttered oaths and curses were all the answer this intima- 
tion obtained. 

“ Now Huntingdon, you see,” said Hattersley, “ clear as the 
day.” 

“ I don’t care what he sees,” said I, “ or what he imagines; 
but you, Mr. Hattersley, when you hear my name belied and 
slandered, will you defend it V* 

“I will. Blast me if I don’t!” 

I instantly departed, and shut myself into the library. What 
could possess me to make such a request of such a man ? I 
can not tell, but drowning men catch at straws : they had driven 
me desperate between them ; I hardly knew what I said. 
There was no other to preserve my name from being blackened 
and aspersed among this nest of boon companions, and through 
them, perhaps into the world ; and beside my abandoned wretch 
of a husband, the base, malignant Grimsby, and the false villain 
Hargrave, this booiish ruffian, coarse and brutal as he was, 
shone like a glow-worm in the dark, among its fellow worms. 


306 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


What a scene was this ! Could I ever have imagined that I 
should be doomed to bear such insults under my own roof — to 
hear such things spoken in my presence — nay spoken to me and 
of me — and by those who arrogated to themselves the name of 
gentlemen % And could I have imagined that I should have been 
able to endure it as calmly, and to repel their insults as firmly 
and as boldly as I had done % A hardness such as this, is taught 
by rough experience and despair alone. 

Such thoughts as these, chased one another through my mind, 
as I paced to and fro the room, and longed — oh, how I longed 
to take my child and leave them now, without an hour’s delay ! 
But it could not be : there was work before me — hard work, 
that must be done. 

“ Then let me do it,” said I, “ and lose not a moment in 
vain repinings, and idle chafings against my fate, and those who 
influence it.” 

And conquering my agitation with a powerful effort, I imme- 
diately resumed my task, and labored hard all day. 

Mr. Hargrave did depart on the morrow ; and I have never 
seen him since. The others staid on or two for three weeks 
longer; but I kept aloof from them as much as possible, and 
still continued my labor, and have continued it, with almost un- 
abated ardor, to the present day. I soon acquainted Rachel 
with my design, confiding all my motives and intentions to her 
ear, and much to my agreeable surprise, found little difficulty 
in persuading her to enter into my views. She is a sober, cau- 
tious woman, but she so hates her master, and so loves her 
mistress and her nursling, that after several ejaculations, a few 
faint objections, and many tears and lamentations that I should 
be brought to such a pass, she applauded my resolution and 
consented to aid me with all her might — on one condition only 
— that she might share my exile : otherwise she was utterly 
inexorable, regarding it as perfect madness for me and Arthur 
to go alone. With touching generosity, she modestly offered to 
aid me with her little hoard of sa^dngs, hoping I would “ excuse 
her for the liberty, but really if I would do her the favor to ac- 
cept it as a loan, she would be very happy.” Of course I could 
not think of such a thing ; — but now, thank Heaven, I have 
gathered a little hoard of my own, and my preparations are so 
far advanced, that I am looking forward to a speedy emanci- 
pation. Only let the stormy severity of this winter weather be 
somewhat abated, and then, some morning Mr. Huntingdon will 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


307 


come down to a solitary breakfast-table, and perhaps be clam- 
oring through the house for his invisible wife and child, when 
they are some fifty miles on their way to the western world — 
or it may be more, for we shall leave him hours before the 
dawn, and it is not probable he will discover the loss of both, 
until the day is far advanced. 

I am fully alive to the evils that may, and must result from 
the step I am about to take ; but I never waver in my resolu- 
tion, because I never forget my son. It was only this morning 
— while I pursued my usual employment, he was sitting at my 
feet, quietly playing with the shreds of canvas I had thrown 
upon the carpet — but his mind was otherwise occupied, for, in 
a while, he looked up wistfully in my face, and gravely asked — 

“ Mamma, why are you wicked V’ 

“ Who told you I was wicked, love 

“ Rachel.” 

“ No, Arthur, Rachel never said so, I am certain.” 

“Well then, it was papa,” replied he thoughtfully. Then, 
after a reflective pause, he added, “ At least. I’ll tell you how 
it was I got to know : when I’m with papa, if I say mamma 
wants me, or mamma says I’m not to do something that he tells 
me to do— he always says, ‘ Mamma be damned’ — and Rachel 
says it’s only wicked people that are damned. So mamma, 
that’s why I think you must be wicked — and I wish you 
wouldn’t.” 

“ My dear child," I am not. Those are bad words, and wicked 
people often say them of others better than themselves. Those 
words can not make people be damned, nor show that they 
deserve it. God will judge us by our own thoughts and deeds, 
not by what others say about us. And when you hear such 
words spoken, Arthur, remember never to repeat them : it is 
wicked to say such things of others, not to have them said 
against you.” 

“ Then it’s papa that’s wicked,” said he ruefully. 

“ Papa is wrong to say such things, and you will be very 
wrong to imitate him, now that you know better.” 

“ What is imitate V* 

“ To do as he does.” 

“ Does Tie know better 

“ Perhaps he does ; but that is nothing to you.” 

“ If he doesn’t, you ought to tell him, mamma.” 

I have told him.” 


308 


THE TENANT OF WILUFELL HALL. 


The little mDralist paused and pondered. I tried in vain to 
divert his mind from the subject. 

“ I’m sorry papa’s wicked,” said he mournfully, at length, 
“ for I don’t want him to go to hell.” And so saying he burst 
into tears. 

I consoled him with the hope that perhaps his papa would 
alter and become good before he died — but is it not time to 
deliver him from such a parent 1 


CHAPTER XL. . 

A MISADVENTURE. 

Jan. 10th, 1827. — While writing the above, yesterday even- 
ing, I sat in the drawing-room. Mr. Huntingdon was present, 
but, as I thought, asleep on the sofa behind me. He had risen 
however, unknown to me, and, actuated by some base spirit of 
curiosity, been looking over my shoulder for I know not how 
long; for when I had laid aside my pen, and was about to close 
the book, he. suddenly placed his hand upon it, and saying — 
“ With your leave, my dear. I’ll have a look at this,” forcibly 
wrested it from me, and, drawing a chair to the table, com- 
posedly sat down to examine it — turning back leaf after leaf to 
find an explanation of what he had read. Unluckily for me, 
he was more sober that night than he usually is at such an 
hour. 

Of course I did not leave him to pursue this occupation in 
quiet : I made several attempts to snatch the book from his 
hands, but he hel.d it too firmly for that ; I upbraided him in 
bitterness and scorn for his mean and dishonorable conduct, but 
that had no effect upon him ; and, finally, I extinguished both 
the candles, but he only wheeled round to the fire, and raising 
a blaze sufficient for his purposes, calmly continued the inves- 
tigation. I had serious thoughts of getting a pitcher of water 
and extinguishing that light too ; but it was evident his curiosi- 
ty was too keenly excited to be quenched by that, and the more 
I manifested my anxiety to baffle his scrutiny, the greater 
would be his determination to persist in it — besides it was too 
late. 


THE TENANT OF VVILDFELL HALL. 


309 


“It seems very interesting, love,” said he, lifting his head 
and turning to where I stood wringing my hands in silent rage 
and anguish ; “ but it’s rather long ; I’ll look at it some other 
time ; — and meanwhile. I’ll trouble you for your keys, my 
dear.” 

“ What keys V' 

“ The keys of your cabinet, desk, drawers, and whatever else 
you possess,” said he, rising and holding out his hand. 

“ I’ve not got them,” I replied. The key of my desk, in fact, 
was, at that moment, in the lock, and the others were attached 
to it. 

“ Then you must send for them,” said he ; “and if that old 
bitch, Rachel, doesn’t immediately deliver them up, she tramps, 
bag and baggage, to-morrow.” 

“ She doesn’t know where they are,” I answered, quietly 
placing my hand upon them, and taking them from the desk, as 
I thought, unobserved. “ I know, but shall not give them up 
without a reason.” 

“ And I know, too,” said he, suddenly seizing my closed hand, 
and rudely abstracting them from it. He then took up one of 
the candles and relighted it by thrusting it into the fire. 

“ Now then,” sneered he, “ we must have a confiscation of 
property. But first, let us take a peep into the studio.” 

And putting the keys into his pocket, he walked into the 
library. I followed, whether with the dim idea of preventing 
mischief, or only to know the worst, I can hardly tell. My 
painting materials were laid together on the corner table, ready 
for to-morrow’s use, and only covered with a cloth. He soon 
spied them out, and putting down the candle, deliberately pro- 
ceeded to cast them into the fire — pallet, paints, bladders, pen- 
cils, brushes, varnish — I saw them all consumed — the pallet 
knives snapped in two — the oil and tui’pentine sent hissing and 
roaring up the chimney. He then rang the bell. 

“ Benson, take those things away,” said he, pointing to the 
easel, canvas, and stretcher ; “ and tell the. housemaid she may 
kindle the fire with them : your mistress won’t want them any 
more.” 

Benson paused aghast, and looked at me. 

“ Take them away, Benson,” said I ; and his master muttered 
an oath. 

“ And this and all, sir I” said the astonished servant, referring 
to the half-finished picture. 


310 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ That and all,” replied the master ; and the things were 
cleared away. 

Mr. Huntingdon then went up-stairs. I did not attempt to 
follow him, but remained seated in the arm-chair — speechless, 
tearless, and almost motionless, till he returned, about half an 
hour after, and walking up to me, held the candle in my face, 
and peered into my eyes with looks and laughter too insulting 
to be borne. With a sudden stroke of my hand, I dashed the 
candle to the floor. 

“ Hal-lo !” muttered he, starting back — “ she’s the very devil 
for spite ! Did ever any mortal see such eyes % they shine in the 
dark like a cat’s. 0/i, you’re a sweet one !” so saying, he 
gathered up the candle and the candlestick. The former being 
broken as well as extinguished, he rang for another. 

“ Benson, vour mistress has broken the candle : brin? an- 
other.” - 

“You expose yourself finely,” observed I as the man departed. 

“ I didn’t say Td broken it, did I returned he. He then 
threw my keys into my lap, saying- — “ There ! you’ll find noth- 
ing gone but your money, and the jewels — and a few little trifles 
I thought it advisable to take into my own possession, lest your 
mercantile spirit should be tempted to turn them into gold. 
I’ve left you a few sovereigns in your purse, which I expect to 
last you through the month — at all events, when you want more 
you will be so good as to give me an account of how that’s 
spent. I shall put you upon a small monthly allowance, in 
future, for your own private expenses ; and you needn’t trouble 
yourself any more about my conceiTis ; I shall look out for a 
steward, my dear ; I won’t expose you to the temptation. And 
as for the household matters, Mrs. Greaves must be very par- 
ticular in keeping her accounts : we must go upon an entirely new 
plan — ” 

“ What great discovery have you made now^ Mr. Huntingdon % 
Have I attempted to defraud you 

“ Not in money matters, exactly, it seems ; but it’s best to 
keep out of the way of temptation.” 

Here Benson entered with the candles, and there followed 
a brief interval of silence — I sitting still in my chair, and he 
standing with his back to the fire, silently triumphing in my 
despair. 

“ And so,” said he at length, “ you thought to disgrace me, 
did you, by running away and turning artist, and supporting 


THE TENANT OP WILDFELL HALL. 


311 


yourself by the labor of your hands, forsooth 1 And you thought 
to rob me of my son too, and bring him up to be a dirty Yank^ee 
tradesman, or a low, beggarly painter V*’ 

“ Yes, to obviate his becoming such a gentleman as his 
father.” 

“ It’s well you couldn’ keep your own secret — ha, ha ! It’s 
well these women must be blabbing — if they haven’t a friend 
to talk to, they must whisper their secrets to the fishes, or write 
them on the sand or something ; and it’s well too I wasn’t over 
full to-night, now I think of it, or I might have snoozed away 
and never dreamed of looking what ray sweet lady was about — 
or I might have lacked the sense or the power to carry my point 
like a man, as I have done.” 

Leaving him to his self congratulations, I rose to secure my 
manuscript, for I now remembered it had been left upon the 
drawing-room table, and I determined, if possible, to save my- 
self the humiliation of seeing it in his hands again. I could not 
bear the idea of his amusing himself over my secret thoughts and 
recollections ; though, to be sure, he would find little good of 
himself therein indited, except in the former part — and oh, I 
would sooner burn it all than he should read what I had writ 
ten when I was such a fool as to love him ! 

“ And by-the-by,” cried he as I was leaving the room, “ you’d 
better tell that d — d old sneak of a nurse to keep out of my way 
for a day or two — I’d pay her her wages and send her packing 
to-morrow, but I know she’d do more mischief out of the house 
than in it.” 

And as I departed, he went on cursing and abusing my 
faithful friend and servant with epithets I will not defile this 
paper with repeating. I went to her as soon as I had put away 
my book, and told her how our project was defeated. She was 
as much distressed and horrified as I was — and more so than I 
was that night, for I was partly stunned by the blow and partly 
excited .and supported against it by the bitterness of wrath. But 
in the moniing, when I woke without that cheering hope that 
had been ray secret comfort and support so long, and all this 
day, when I have wandered about restless and objectless, shun- 
ning my husband, shrinking even from my child — knowing that 
I am unfit to be his teacher or companion — hoping nothing for 
his future life, and fervently wishing he had never been born — 
I felt the full extent of my calamity — and I feel it now. I know 
that day after day such feelings will return upon me : I am a 


312 


THE TENANT OP WILDFELL HALL. 


slave, a prisoner — but that is nothing; if it were myself alone, 
I would not complain ; but I am forbidden to rescue my son 
from laiin, and what was once my only consolation, is become 
the crowning source of my despair. 

Have I no faith in God ] I try to look to him, and raise my 
heart to Heaven, but it will cleave to the dust ; I can only say, 
“ He hath hedged me about, that I can not get out : he hath 
made my chain heavy. He hath filled me with bitterness, he 
hath made me drunken with wormwood — I forget to add,^ 
“ But though he cause grief, yet will he have compassion ac- 
cording to the multitude of his mercies. For he doth not afflict 
willingly, nor grieve the children of men.” I ought to think of 
this; and if there be nothing but sorrow for me in this world, 
what is the longest life of misery to a whole eternity of peace ? 
And for my little Arthur — has he no fnend but me 1 Who was 
it said, “ It is not the will of your Father which is in Heaven, 
that one of these little ones should perish 


CHAPTER XLI. 

“ HOPE SPRINGS ETERNAL IN THE HUMAN BREAST.” 

March 20th. — Having now got rid of Mr. Huntingdon for a 
season, my spirits begin to revive. He left me early in Feb- 
ruary ; and the moment he was gone I breathed again, and felt 
my vital energy return ; not with the hope of escape — he has 
taken care to leave me no visible chance of that — but with a 
determination to make the best of existing circumstances. 
Here was Arthur left to me at last; and rousing from my de- 
spondent apathy, I exerted all my powers to eradicate the 
weeds that had been fostered in his infant mind, and sow again 
the good seed they had rendered unproductive. Thank Heaven, 
it is not a barren or a stony soil ; if weeds spring fast there, so 
do better plants. His apprehensions are more quick, his heart 
more overflowing with affection, than ever his father’s could 
have been ; and it is no hopeless task, to bend him to obedience 
and win him to love and know his own true friend, as long as 
there is no one to counteract my efforts. 

I had much trouble, at first, in breaking him of those evil 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


313 


habits his father had taught him to acquire ; but already that 
difficulty is nearly vanquished ; now, bad language seldom de- 
files his mouth, and I have succeeded in giving him an absolute 
disgust for all intoxicating liquors, which, I hope, not even his 
father, or his father’s friends, will be able to overcome. He 
was inordinately fond of them for so young a creature, and, re- 
membering my unfortunate father as well as his, I dreaded the 
consequences of such a taste. But if I had stinted him in his 
usual quantity of wine, or forbidden him to taste it altogether, 
that would only have increased his partiality for it, and made 
him regard it as a gj'eater treat than ever. I therefore gave 
him quite as much as his father was accustomed to allow him, 
as much, indeed, as he desired to have ; but into every glass I 
surreptitiously introduced a small quantity of tartar-emetic — 
just enough to produce inevitable nausea and depression, with- 
out positive sickness. Finding such disagreeable consequences 
invariably to result from this indulgence, he soon grew weary 
of it, but the more he shrank from the daily treat, the more I 
pressed it upon him, till his reluctance was strengthened to per- 
fect abhorrence. When he was thoroughly disgusted with 
every kind of wine, I allowed him, at his own request, to tiy 
brandy and water, and then gin and water; for the little toper 
was familiar with them all, and I was determined that all should 
be equally hateful to him. This I have now effected ; and 
since he declares that the taste, the smell, the sight of any one 
of them is sufficient to make him sick, I have given up teazing 
him about them, except now and then as objects of terror in 
cases of misbehavior. “ Arthur, if you’re not a good boy, I 
shall give you a glass of wine,” or, “ Now, Arthur, if you say 
that again you shall have some brandy and water,” is as good 
as any other threat ; and once or twice, when he was sick, I 
have obliged the poor child to swallow a little wine and water, 
without the tartar-emetic, by way of medicine. And this prac- 
tice I intend to continue for some time to come ; not that I 
think it of any real service in a physical sense, but because I am 
determined to enlist all the powers of association in my ser- 
vice. I wish this aversion to be so deeply grounded in his 
nature, that nothing in after life may be able to overcome it. 

Thus, I flatter myself, I shall secure him fi’om this one vice ; 
and for the rest, if, on his father’s return, I find reason to appre- 
hend that my good lessons will be all destroyed — if Mr. Hunt- 
ingdon commence again the game of teaching the child to hate 


314 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


and despise his mother, and emulate his father’s wickedness, I 
will yet deliver my son from his hands. I have devised another 
scheme that might be resorted to in such a case, and if I could 
but obtain my brother’s consent and assistance, I should not 
doubt of its success. The old Hall where he and I were born, 
and where our mother died, is not now inhabited, nor yet quite 
sunk into decay, as I believe. Now, if I could persuade him to 
have one or two rooms made habitable, and to let them to me 
as a strangei’, I might live there, with my child, under an as- 
sumed name, and still support myself by my favorite art. He 
should lend me the money to begin with, and I should pay him 
back, and live in lowly independence and strict seclusion, for the 
house stands in a lonely place, and the neighborhood is thinly 
inhabited, and he himself should negotiate the sale of my pic- 
tures for me. I have arranged the whole plan in my head, and 
all I want is, to persuade Frederic to be of the same mind as 
myself. He is coming to see me soon, and then I will make 
the proposal to him, having first enlightened him upon my cir- 
cumstances sufficiently to excuse the project. 

Already, I believe, he knows much more of my situation than 
I have told him. I can tell this by the air of tender sadness per- 
vading his letters ; and by the fact of his so seldom mentioning 
my husband, and generally evincing a kind of covert bitterness 
when he does refer to him ; as well as by the circumstances of 
his never coming to see me when Mr. Huntingdon is at home. 
But he has never openly expressed any disapprobation of him, 
or sympathy for me ; he has never asked any questions, or said 
any thing to invite my confidence. Had he done so, I should 
probably have had but few concealments from him. Perhaps 
he feels huit at my reserve. He is a strange being : I wish we 
knew each other better. He used to spend a month at Staningley 
every year before I was married ; but, since our father’s death, 
I have only seen him once, when he came for a few days while 
Mr. Huntingdon was away. He shall stay many days this time, 
and there shall be more candor and cordiality between us than 
ever there was before, since our early childhood. My heart clings 
to him more than ever, and my soul is sick of solitude. 

A.pril 16th. — He is come and gone. He would not stay above 
a fortnight. The time passed quickly, but very — very happily, 
and it has done me good. I must have a bad disposition, for my 
misfortunes have soured and imbittered me exceedingly : I was 
beginning insensibly to cherish very unamiable feelings against 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


315 




my fellow mortals — the male part of them, especially ; but it is 
a 'comfort to see there is at least one among them worthy to be 
trusted and esteemed ; and doubtless there are more, though I 
have never known them — unless I except poor Lord Lowbor- 
ough, and he was bad enough in his day; but what would Fred- 
eric have been, if he had lived in the world, and mingled from 
his childhood with such men as these of my acquaintance ] and 
what iDill Arthur be, with all his natural sweetness of disposi- 
tion, if I do not save him from that world and those companions] 
I mentioned my fears to Frederic, and introduced the subject 
of my plan of rescue on the evening after his arrival, when I pre- 
sented my little son to his uncle. 

“He is like you, Frederic,” said T, “in some of his moods: I 
sometimes think he resembles you more than his father, and I am 
glad of it.” 

“You flatter me, Helen,” replied he, stroking the child's soft, 
wavy locks. 

“ No ; you will think it no compliment when I tell you I 
would rather have him to resemble Benson than his father.” 

He slightly elevated his eyebrows, but said nothing. 

“ Do you know what sort of a man Mr. Huntingdon is 
said I. 

“ I think I have an idea.” 

“ Have you so clear an idea t hat you can hear, without sur- 
prise or disapproval, that I meditate escaping with that child to 
some secret asylum where we can live in peace and never see 
him again ]” 

“ Is it really so ]” 

“If you have not,” continued I, “I’ll tell you something more 
about him” — and I gave a sketch of his general conduct, and a 
more particular account of his behavior with regard to his child, 
and explained my apprehensions on the latter’s account, and my 
detferminatioji to deliver him from his father’s influence. 

Frederic was exceedingly indignant against Mr. Huntingdon, 
and very much giieved for me ; but still, he looked upon my 
project as wild and impracticable ; he deemed my fears for Ar 
thur disproportioned to the circumstances, and opposed so many 
objections to my plan, and devised so many milder methods for 
ameliorating my condition, that I was obliged to enter into 
further details to convince him that my husband was utterly 
incorrigible, and that nothing could persrade him to give up 
his son whatever became of me, he being as fully determined 


316 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


the child should not leave him, as I was not to leave the child ; 
and that, in fact, nothing would answer but this, unless I fled the 
country, as I had intended before. To obviate that, he at length 
consented to have one wing of the old Hall put into a habitable 
condition, as a place of refuge against a time of need ; but hoped 
I would not take advantage of it, unless circumstances should 
render it really necessary, which I was ready enough to prom- 
ise ; for, though, for my own sake, such a hermitage appears 
like paradise itself, compared with my present situation, yet for 
my friends’ sakes — for Milicent and Esther, my sisters, in heart 
and affection — for the poor tenants of Grassdale, and, above all, 
for my aunt — I will stay if I possibly can. 

July 29th. — Mrs. Hargrave and her daughter are come back 
from London. Esther is full of her first season in town ; but 
she is still heart-whole and unengaged. Her mother sought out 
an excellent match for her, and even brought the gentleman to 
lay his heart and fortune at her feet ; but Esther had the audac- 
ity to refuse the noble gifts. He was a man of good family 
and large possessions, but the naughty girl maintained he was 
as old as Adam, ugly as sin, and hateful as — one who shall be 
nameless. i 

“ But, indeed, I had a hard time of it,” said she. “ Mamma 
was very greatly disappointed at the failure of her darling pro- 
ject, and very, very angry at ny obstinate resistance to her will 
— and is so still ; but I can’t help it. And Walter, too, is so seri- 
ously displeased at my perversity and absurd caprice, as he calls 
it, th?t I fear he will never forgive me ; I did not think he could 
be so unkind as he has lately shown himself. But Milicent 
begged me not to yield, and I’m sure, Mrs. Huntingdon, if you 
had seen the man they wanted to palm upon me, you would 
have advised me not to take him too.” 

“ I should have done so whether 1 had seen him or not,” said 
I. “ It is enough that you dislike him.” 

“ I knew you would say so ; though mamma affirmed you 
would be quite shocked at my undutiful conduct. You can’t 
imagine how she lectures me. I am disobedient and ungrateful; 
I am thwarting her wishes, wronging my brother, and making 
myself a burden on her hands ; I sometimes fear she will over- 
come me, after all. I have a strong will, but so has she ; and 
when she says such things, it provokes me to such a pass that I 
feel inclined to do as she bids me, aud then break my heart and 
say — ‘ There, mamma, it’s all your fault !’” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


817 


“ Pray, don’t !” said I. “Obedience from such a motive would 
be positive wickedness, and certain to bring the punishment it 
deserved. Stand firm, and your mamma will soon relinquish her 
persecution ; and the gentleman himself will cease to pester you 
with his addresses if he finds them steadily rejected.” 

“ Oh, no ! mamma will weary all about her before she tires 
herself with her exertions ; and as for Mr. Oldfield, she has 
given him to understand that I have refused his offer, not from 
any dislike to his person, but merely because I am giddy and 
young, and can not at present reconcile myself to the thoughts 
of marriage under any circumstances ; but by next season, she 
has no doubt, I shall have more sense, and hopes my girlish fan- 
cies will be worn away. So she has brought me home to school 
me into a proper sense of my duty, against the time comes 
round again — indeed, I believe she will not put herself to the 
expense of taking me up to London again, unless I surrender. 
She can not afford to take me to town for pleasure and nonsense, 
she says, and it is not every rich gentleman that will consent to 
take me without a fortune, whatever exalted ideas I may have 
of my own attractions.” 

“Well, Esther, I pity you; but still, I repeat, stand firm. 
You might as well sell yourself to slavery at once, as marry a 
man you dislike. If your mother and brother are unkind to you, 
you may leave them, but remember you are bound to your 
husband for life.” 

“ But I can not leave them unless I get married, and I can 
not get married if nobody sees me. I saw one or two gentle- 
men in London, that I might have liked, but they were younger 
sons, and mamma would not let me get to know them — one 
especially, who I believe rather liked me, but she threw every 
possible obstacle in the way of our better acquaintance — wasn’t 
it provoking ]” 

“ T have no doubt you would feel it so, but it is possible that 
if you married him, you might have more reason to regret it 
hereafter, than if you manded Mr. Oldfield. When I tell you 
not to marry without love, Ido not advise you to marry for love 
alone; there are many, many other things to be considered. 
Keep both heart and hand in your possession, till you see good 
reason to part with them ; and if such an occasion should never 
present itself, comfort your mind with this reflection : that, 
though in single life your joys may not be very many, your sor- 
rows, at least, will not be more than you can bear. Marriage 


318 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


may change your circumstances for the better, but, in my private 
opinion, it is far more likely to produce a contrary result.” 

“ So thinks Milicent, but allow me to say, I think otherwise. 
If I thought myself doomed to old-maidenhood, I should cease 
to value my life. The thought of living on, year after year, at 
the Grove — a hanger-on upon mamma and Walter — a mere 
cumberer of the ground (now that I know in what light they 
would regard it), is perfectly intolerable — I would rather run 
away with the butler.” 

“ Your circumstances are peculiar I allow ; but have patience,'* 
love ; do nothing rashly. Remember you are not yet nineteen, 
and many years are yet to pass before any one can set you down 
as an old maid ; you can not tell what Providence may have in 
store for you. And, meantime, remember you have a right to 
the protection and support of your mother and brother, however 
they may seem to grudge it.” 

“ You are so grave, Mrs. Huntingdon,” said Esther, after a 
pause. “ When Milicent uttered the same discouraging senti- 
ments concerning marriage, 1 asked if she was happy : she said 
she was ; but I only half believed her ; and now I must put the 
same question to you.” 

“ It is a very impertinent question,” laughed I, “ from a young 
girl to a married woman so many years her senior — and I shall 
not answer it.” 

“ Pardon me, my dear madam , said she, laughingly throwing 
herself into my arms, and kissing me with playful affection ; but 
I felt a tear on my neck, as she dropped her head on my bosom 
and continued, with an odd mixture of sadness and levity, timid- 
ity and audacity — “ I know you are not so happy as I mean 
to be, for you spend half your life alone at Grassdale, while 
Mr. Huntingdon goes about enjoying himself where and how he 
pleases. I shall expect my husband to have no pleasures but 
what he shares with me ; and if his greatest pleasure of all is 
not the enjoyment of my company — why — it will be the worse 
for him — that’s all.” 

“If such are your expectations of matrimony, Esther, you 
must indeed, be careful whom you marry — or rather, you must 
avoid it altogether.” 


'CHAPTER XLII. 


A REFORMATION. 

September 1st.— No Mr. Huntingdon yet. Perhaps he will 
stay among his friends till Christmas ; and then, next spring, he 
will be off again. If he continue this plan, I shall be able to stay 
at Grassdale well enough — that is, I shall be able to stay, and that 
is enough ; even an occasional bevy of friends at the shooting 
season, may be borne if Arthur get so firmly attached to me — 
so well established in good sense and principles, before they 
come, that I shall be able, by reason and affection, to keep him 
pure from their contaminations. Vain hope, I fear! but still, 
till such a time of trial comes, I will forbear to think of my 
quiet asylum in the beloved old Hall. 

Mr. and Mrs. Hattersley have been staying at the Grove a 
fortnight ; and as Mr. Hargrave is still absent, and the weather 
was remarkably fine, I never passed a day without seeing my 
two friends, Milicent and Esther, either there or here. On 
one occasion, when Mr. Hattersley had driven them over to 
Grassdale in the phaeton, with little Helen and Ralph, and we 
w’ere all enjoying ourselves in the garden — I had a few minutes 
conversation with that gentleman, while the ladies were amusing 
themselves with the children. 

“ Do you want to hear any thing of your husband, Mrs. 
Huntingdon said he. 

“ No, unless you can tell me when to expect him home.” 

‘‘I can’t. You don’t want him, do you?” said h.e, with a 
broad grin. 

“ No.” 

Well, I think you’re better without him, sure enough — for 
my part, I’m downright weary of him. I told him I’d leave 
him if he didn’t mend his manners — and he wouldn’t ; so I left 
him — you see I’m a better man than you think me ; and what’s 
more, I have serious thoughts of washing my hands of him 
entirely, and the whole set of ’em, and comporting myself from 
this day forward, with all decency and sobriety as a Christian 
and the father of a family should do. What do you think of 
that?” 

“ It is a resolution vou ought to have formed long ago.” 


320 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ Well, I’m not thirty yet ; it isn’t too late, is it ]” 

“ No; it is never too late to reform, as long as you have the 
sense to desire it, and the strength to execute your purpose.” 

“ Well, to tell you the truth. I’ve thought of it often and often 
before, but he’s such devilish good company is Huntingdon, 
after all — you can’t imagine what a jovial good-fellow he is 
when he’s not fairly drunk, only just primed or half-seas-over — 
we all have a bit of liking for him at the bottom of our hearts, 
though we can’t respect him.” 

“ But should you wish yourself to be like him 
“ No, I’d rather be like myself, bad as I am.” 

“ You can’t continue as bad as you are without getting worse 
— and more brutalized every day — and therefore more like 
him.” 

I could not help smiling at the comical, half angry, half con- 
founded look he put on at this rather unusual mode of address. 

“ Never mind my plain speaking,” said I ; “ it’s from the best 
of motives. But tell me, should you wish your sons to be like 
Mr. Huntingdon — or even like yourself]” 

“ Hang it, no.” 

“ Should you wish your daughter to despise you — or, at least, 
to feel no vestige of respect for you, and no afection but what 
is mingled with the bitterest regret ]” 

“ Oh, blast it, no ! I couldn’t stand that.” 

“ And finally, should you wish your wife to be ready to sink 
into the earth when she hears you mentioned ; and to loathe 
the very sound of your voice, and shudder at your approach ]” 

“ She never will ; she likes me all the same, whatever I do.” 
“ Impossible, Mr. Hattersley ! you mistake her quiet submis- 
sion for affection.” 

“ Fire and fury — ” 

“ Now don’t burst into a tempest at that — I don’t mean to 
say she does not love you — she does, I know, a great deal bet- 
ter than you deserve — but I am quite sure, that if you behave 
better, she will love you more, and if you behave worse, she 
will love you less and less, till all is lost in fear, aversion, and 
bitterness of soul, if not in secret hatred and contempt. But, 
dropping the subject of affection, should you wish to be the 
tyrant of her life — to take away all the sunshine from her exist- 
ence, and make her thoroughly miserable ]” 

“ Of course not ; and I don’t, and I’m not going to.” 

“ You have done more toward it than you suppose.” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


321 


“ Pooh, pooh ! she’s not the susceptible, anxious, worriting 
creature you imagine : she’s a little meek, peaceable, affection- 
ate body ; apt to be rather sulky at times, but quiet and cool in 
the main, and ready to take things as they come.” 

“ Think of what she was five years ago, when you married 
her, and what she is now.” 

“ I know — she was a little plump lassie then, with a pretty 
pink and white face ; now, she’s a poor, little bit of a creature, 
fading and melting away like a snow-wreath — but hang it ! by 
Jupiter, that’s not my fault !” 

“ What is the cause of it then 1 Not years, for she’s only 
five and twenty.” 

“ It’s her own delicate health, and — confound it, madam ! 
w’hat would you make of me 'i and the children, to be sure, that 
worry her to death between them.” 

“ No, Mr. Hattersley, the children give her more pleasure 
than pain : they are fine well dispositioned children — ” 

“ I know they are — bless ’em !” 

“ Then why lay the blame on them 1 I’ll tell you what it is : 
it’s silent fretting and constant anxiety on your account, mingled 
I suspect, •with something of bodily fear on her own. When 
you behave well, she can only rejoice with trembling ; she has 
no security, no confidence in your judgment or principles; but 
is continually dreading the close of such short-lived felicity : 
when you behave ill, her causes of terror and misery are more 
than any one can tell but herself. In patient endurance of evil, 
she forgets it is our duty to admonish our neighbors of their 
transgressions. Since you will mistake her silence for indiffer- 
ence, come with me, and I’ll show you one or two of her letters 
— no breach of confidence, I hope, since you are her other 
half” 

He followed me into the library. I sought out and put into his 
hands two of Milicent’s letters ; one dated from London, and 
written during one of his wildest seasons of reckless dissipation; 
the other in the country during a lucid interval. The former 
was full of trouble and anguish ; not accusing Aim, but deeply 
regretting his connection with his profligate companions, abusing 
Mr. Grimsby and others, insinuating bitter things against Mr 
Huntingdon, and most ingeniously throwing the blame of her 
husband’s misconduct on to other men’s shoulders. The latter 
was full of hope and joy, yet with a trembling consciousness 
that this happiness would not last ; praising his goodness to the 


322 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


skies, but-Avith an evident, though but half expressed wish that 
it were based on a surer foundation than the natural impulses 
of the heart, and a half prophetic dread of the fall of that 
house so founded on the sand — which fall had shortly after taken 
place, as Hattersley must have been conscious while he read. 

Almost at the commencement of the first letter, I had the un- 
expected pleasure of seeing him blush ; but he immediately 
turned his back to me, and finished the perusal at the window. 
At the second, 1 saw him, once or twice, raise his hand and 
hurriedly pass it across his face. Could it be to dash away a 
tear 1 When he had done, there was an interval spent in clear- 
ing his throat and staring out of the window, and then, after 
whistling a few bars of a favorite air, he turned round, gave me 
back the letters, and silently shook me by the hand. 

“ I’ve been a cursed rascal, God knows,” said he as he gave 
it a hearty squeeze, “ but you see if I don’t make amends for 
it-;-G — d d — n me if I don’t !” 

“ Don’t curse yourself, Mr. Hattersley ; if God had heard 
half your invocations of that kind, you would have been in 
hell long before now — and you can not make amends for the 
past by doing your duty for the future, inasmuch as your duty 
is only what you owe to your Maker, and you can not do more 
than fulfill it — another must make amends for your past delin- 
quencies. If you intend to reform, invoke God’s blessing, his 
mercy, and his aid ; not his curse.” 

“ God help me, then — for I’m sure I need it. Where’s Mili- 
cent 

“ She’s there, just coming in with her sister.” 

He stepped out at the glass door, and went to meet them. I 
followed at a little distance. Somewhat to his wife’s astonish- 
ment, he lifted her off from the ground and saluted her with a 
hearty kiss and a strong embrace ; then, placing his two hands 
on her shoulders, he gave her, I suppose, a sketch of the great 
things he meant to do, for she suddenly threw her arms round 
him, and burst into tears, exclaiming — 

“ Do, do, Ralph — we shall be so happy ! How very, veiy 
good you are !” 

“Nay, not I,” said he, turning her round and pushing her 
toward me. “ Thank her ; it’s her doing.” 

^ Milicent flew to thank me, oveiHowing with gratitude. I 
disclaimed all title to it, telling her her husband was predisposed 
to amendment before I added my mite of exhortation and en- 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


323 


couragement, and that I had only done what she might — and 
ought to — haye done herself. 

“ Oh, no !” cried she, “ I couldn’t have influenced him, I’m 
sure, by any thing that I could have said. I should only have 
bothered him by my clumsy efforts at persuasion, if I had made 
the attempt.” 

“You never tried me, Milly,” said he. 

Shortly after, they took their leave. They are now gone on 
a visit to Hattersley’s father. After that, they will repair to 
their country home. I hope this good resolution will not fall 
through, and poor Milicent will not be again disappointed. Her 
last letter was full of present bliss and pleasing anticipations for 
the future ; but no particular temptation has yet occurred to 
put his virtue to the test. Henceforth, however, she will doubt- 
less be somewhat less timid and reserved, and he more kind 
and thoughtful. Surely, then, her hopes are not unfounded; 
and I have one bright spot, at least, whereon to rest my 
thoughts. 


CHAPTER XLHI. 

THE BOUNDARY PASSED. 

October 10th. — Mr. Huntingdon returned about three weeks 
ago. His appearance, his demeanor and conversation, and my 
feelings with regard to him, I shall not trouble myself to de- 
scribe. The day after his arrival, however, he surprised me by 
the announcement of an intention to procure a governess for 
little Arthur : I told him it was quite unnecessary, not to say 
ridiculous, at the present season : I thought I was fully compe- 
tent to the task of teaching him myself — for some years to come, 
at least : the child’s education was the only pleasure and busi- 
ness of my life ; and since he had deprived me of every other 
occupation, he might surely leave me that. 

He said I was not fit to teach children, or to be with them . 
I had already reduced the boy to little better than an auto- 
maton ; I had broken his fine spirit with my rigid severity ; 
and I should freeze all the sunshine out of his heart, and make 
him as gloomy an ascetic as myself, if I had the handling of him 


324 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


much longer. And poor Rachel, too, came in for her share of 
abuse, as usual ; he can not endure Rachel, because he knows 
she has a proper appreciation of him. 

I calmly defended our several qualifications as nurse and 
governess, and still resisted the proposed addition to our family ; 
but he cut me short by saying, it was no use bothering about 
the matter, for he had engaged a governess already, and she 
was coming next week; so that all I had to do was to get things 
ready for her reception. This was a rather startling piece of 
intelligence. I ventured to inquire her name and address, by 
whom she had been recommended, or how he had been led to 
make choice of her. 

“ She is a very estimable, pious young person,” said he; “you 
needn’t be afraid. Her name is Myers, I believe ; and she was 
recommended to me by a respectable old dowager — a lady of 
high repute in the religious world. I have not seen her myself, 
and therefore can not give you a particular account of her per- 
son and conversation, and so forth ; but, if the old lady’s eulo- 
gies are coiTect, you will find her to possess all desirable quali- 
fications for her position — an inordinate love of children among 
the rest.” 

All this was gravely and quietly spoken, but there was a 
laughing demon in his half-averted eye that boded no good, I 
imagined. However, I thought of my asylum in — shire, and 
made no further objections. 

When Miss Myers arrived, I was not prepared to give her a 
very cordial reception. H^r appearance was not particularly 
calculated to produce a favorable impression at first sight, nor 
did her manners and subsequent conduct, in any degree, remove 
the prejudice I had already conceived against her. Her attain- 
ments were limited, her intellect noways above mediocrity. She 
had a fine voice, and could sing like a nightingale, and accom- 
pany herself sufficiently well on the piano ; but these were her 
only accomplishments. There was a look of guile and subtlety 
in her face, a sound of it in her voice. She seemed afraid of 
me, and would start if I suddenly approached her. In her be- 
havior, she was respectful and complaisant, even to servility : 
she attempted to flatter and fawn upon me at first, but I soon 
checked that. Her fondness for her little pupil was overstrained, 
and I was obliged to remonstrate with her on the subject of 
over-indulgence and injudicious praise ; but she could not gain 
his heart. Her piety consisted in an occasional heaving of sighs 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


325 


and uplifting of eyes to the ceiling, and the utterance of a few 
cant phrases. She told me she was a clergyman’s daughter, 
and had been left an orphan from her childhood, but had had 
the good fortune to obtain a situation in a very pious family ; 
and then she spoke so gratefully of the kindness she had ex- 
perienced from its different members, that I reproached myself 
for my uncharitable thoughts and unfriendly conduct, and re- 
lented for a time — but not for long; my causes' of dislike were 
too rational, my suspicions too well founded for that ; and I 
knew it was my duty to watch and scrutinize till those suspi- 
cions were either satisfactorily removed or confirmed. 

I asked the name and residence of the kind and pious family. 
She mentioned a common name, and an unknown and distant 
place of abode, but told me they were now on the continent, 
and their present address was unknown to her. I never saw 
her speak much to Mr. Huntingdon ; but he would frequently 
look into the school-room to see how little Arthur got on with 
his new companion, when I was not there. In the evening she 
sat with us in the drawing-room, and would sing and play to 
amuse him — or us, as she pretended — and was very attentive to 
his wants, and watchful to anticipate them, though she only 
talked to me — indeed, he was seldom in a condition to be talked 
to. Had she been other than she was, I should have felt her 
presence a great relief to come between us thus, except, in- 
deed, that I should have been thoroughly ashamed for any de- 
cent person to see him as he often was. 

I did not mention my suspicions to Rachel ; but she, having 
sojourned for half a century in this land of sin and sorrow, has 
learned to be suspicious herself. She told me from the first 
she was “ down on that new governess,” and I soon found she 
watched her quite as narrowly as I did ; and I was glad of it, 
for I longed to know the truth : the atmosphere of Grassdale 
seemed to stifle me, and I could only live by thinking of Wild- 
fell Hall. 

At last, one morning, she entered my chamber with such in- 
telligence that my resolution was taken before she had ceased 
to speak. While she dressed me, I explained to her my inten- 
tions, and what assistance I should require from her, and told her 
which of my things she was to pack up, and what she was to 
leave behind for herself, as I had no other means of recompens- 
ing her for this sudden dismissal, after her long and faithful ser- 
vice — a circumstance I most deeply regretted but could not avoid. 


326 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ And what will you do, Rachel I” said I — “ will you go 
home, or seek another place V’ 

“ I have no home, ma’am, but with you,” she replied ; “ and 
if I leave you. I’ll never go into place again as long as I live.” 

“ But I can’t afford to live like a lady, now,” returned I ; “ I 
must be my own maid and my child’s nurse.” 

“ What signijies replied she in some excitement. “ You’ll 
wan’t somebody to clean an4 wash, and cook, won’t you 'i I 
can do all that ; and never mind the wages. — I’ve my bits o’ 
savings yet, and if you wouldn’t take me, I should have to find 
my own board and lodging out of ’em somewhere, or else work 
among strangers — and it’s what I am not used to — so you can 
please yourself ma’am.” Her voice quavered as she spoke, and 
the tears stood in her eyes. 

“ I should like it above all things, Rachel, and' I’d give you 
such wages as I could afford — such as I should give to any ser- 
vant of all work I might employ ; but don’t you see I should be 
dragging you down with me, when you have done nothing to 
deserve it 1” 

‘"Oh, fiddle !” ejaculated she. 

“ And besides, my future way of living will be so widely dif- 
ferent to the past — so different to all you have been accus- 
tomed to — ” 

“ Do you think ma’m, I can’t bear what my missis can ? — 
surely I’m not so proud and so dainty as that comes to — and 
my little master too, G-od bless him 1” 

“ But I’m young, Rachel ; I shan’t mind it ; and Arthur is 
young too — it will be nothing to him.” 

“ Nor me either : I’m not so old but what I can stand hard 
fare and hard .work, if it’s only to help and comfort them as I’ve 
loved like my own bairns — for all I’m too old to bide the 
thoughts o’ leaving ’em in trouble and danger, and going 
among strangers myself.” 

“ Then you shan’t, Rachel !” cried I, embracing my faithful 
friend. “ We’ll all go together, and you shall see how the new 
life suits you.” 

“Bless you, honey!” cried she, affectionately returning my 
embrace. “ Only let us get shut of this wicked house and we’ll 
do right enough, you’ll see.” 

“ So think I,” was my answer ; — and so that point was 
settled. 

By that morning’s post, I dispatched a few hasty lines to 


THE TENANT OP WILDFELL HALL. 


327 


Frederic, beseeching him to prepare my asylum for my im- 
mediate reception — for I should probably come to claim it 
within a day after the receipt of that note — and telling him, in 
few words, the cause of my sudden resolution. I then wrote 
three letters of adieu : the first to Esther Hargrave, in which I 
told her that I found it impossible to stay any longer at Grass- 
dale, or to leave my son under his father’s protection ; and, as 
it was of the last importance that our future abode should be 
unknown to him and his acquaintance, I should disclose it to no 
one but my brother, through the medium of whom I hoped still 
to correspond with my friends. I then gave her his address, 
exhorted her to write frequently, reiterated some of my former 
admonitions regarding her own concerns, and bade her a fond 
farewell. 

The second was to Milicent ; much to the same effect, but a 
little more confidential, as befitted our longer intimacy, and her 
greater experience and better acquaintance with my circum- 
stances. 

The third was to my aunt — a much more difficult and pain- 
ful undertaking, and therefore I had left it to the last ; but I 
must give her some explanation of that extraordinary step I 
had taken — and that quickly, for she and my uncle would no 
doubt hear of it within a day or two after my disappearance, 
it was probable that Mr. Huntingdon would speedily apply to 
them to know what was become of me. At last, however, I told 
her, I was sensible of my error : I did not complain of its punish- 
ment, and I was sorry to trouble my friends with its conse- 
quences ; but in duty to my son, I must submit no longer ; it 
was absolutely necessary that he should be delivered from his 
father’s coiTupti'ng influence. I should not disclose my place of 
refuge even to her, in order that she and my uncle might be 
able, with truth, to deny all knowledge concerning it ; but any 
communications addressed to me under cover to my brother, 
would be certain to reach me. I hoped she and my uncle 
would pardon the step I had taken, for if they knew all, I was 
sure they would not blame me ; and I trusted they would not 
afflict themselves on my account, for if I could only reach my 
retreat in safety, and keep it unmolested, I should be very hap- 
py, but for the thoughts of them ; and should be quite contented 
to spend my life in obscurity, devoting myself to the training 
up of my child, and teaching him to avoid the errors of both his 
parents. 


328 


THE TENANT OP VVILDFELL HALL. 


These things were done yesterday : I have given two whole 
days to the preparations for our departure, that Frederic may 
have more time to prepare the rooms, and Rachel to pack up the 
things — for the latter task must be done with the utmost caution 
and secrecy, and there is no one but me to assist her : I can 
help to get the articles together, but I do not understand the ai't 
of stowing them into the boxes, so as to take up the smallest 
possible space ; and there are her own things to do, as well as 
mine and Arthur’s. I can ill afford to leave any thing behind, 
since I have no money, except a few guineas in my purse ; and 
besides, as Rachel observed, whatever I left would most likely 
become the property of Miss Myers, and I should not relish 
that. 

But what trouble I have had throughout these two days, strug- 
gling to appear calm and collected — to meet him and her as 
usual, when I was obliged to meet them, and forcing myself to 
leave, my little Arthur in her hands for hours together ! But I 
trust these trials are over now : I have laid him in my bed for 
better security, and never more, I trust, shall his innocent lips 
be defiled by their contaminating kisses, or his young ears pol- 
luted by their words. But shall we escape in safety ] Oh, that 
the morning were come, and we were on our way at least ! 
This evening, when I had given Rachel all the assistance I could, 
and had nothing left me but to wait, and wish, and tremble, I 
became so greatly agitated, that I knew not what to do. I went 
down to dinner, but I could not force myself to eat. Mr. Hunt 
ingdon remarked the circumstance. 

“ What’s to do with you now said he, when the removal of 
the second course gave him time to look about him. 

“ I am not well,” I replied : “I think I must lie down a little 
— you won’t miss me much 1” 

“ Not the least ; if you leave your chair, it’ll do just as well 
— ^better a trifle,” he muttered, as I left the room, “ for I can 
fancy somebody else fills it.” 

“ Somebody else mai/fillitto-moiTow,” I thought — but did not 
say. “ There ! I’ve seen the last of you, I hope,” I muttered, 
as I closed the door upon him. 

Rachel urged me to seek repose, at once, to recruit my 
strength for to-morrow’s jouniey, as we must be gone before the 
dawn, but in my present state of neiTOUs excitement, that was 
entirely out of the question. It was equally out of the question 
to sit, or wander about my room, counting the hours and min- 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


329 


utes between me and the appointed time of action, straining my 
ears and trembling at every sound lest some one should discov- 
er and betray us, after all. I took up a book and tried to read. 
My eyes wandered over the pages, but it was impossible to bind 
my thoughts to their contents. Why not have recourse to the 
old expedient, and add this last event to my chronicle ^ I opened 
its pages once more, and wrote the above account — with diffi- 
culty, at first, but gradually my mind became more calm and 
steady. Thus several hours have passed away : the time is 
drawing near ; and now my eyes feel heavy, and my frame ex- 
hausted : I will commend my cause to God, and then lie down 
and gain an hour or two of sleep ; and then ! — 

Little Arthur sleeps soundly. All the house is still; there can 
be no one watching. The boxes were all corded by Benson, 
and quietly conveyed down the back stairs after dusk, and sent 

away in a cart to the M coach-office. The name upon the 

cards was Mrs. Graham, which appellation I mean henceforth 
to adopt. My mother’s maiden name was Graham, and there- 
fore I fancy I have some claim to it, and prefer it to any other, 
except my own, which I dare not resume. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

THE RETREAT. 

October 24th. — Thank Heaven, I am free and safe at last ! 
Early we rose, swiftly and quietly dressed, slowly and stealthily 
descended to the hall, where Benson stood ready with a light to 
open the door and fasten it after us. We were obliged to let 
one man into our secret on account of the boxes, &c. All the 
servants were but too well acquainted with their master’s con- 
duct, and either Benson or John would have been willing to 
serve me, but as the former was more staid and elderly, and a 
crony of Rachel’s besides, I of course directed her to make 
choice of him as her assistant and confidant on the occasion, as 
far as necessity demanded. I only hope he may not be brought 
into trouble thereby, and only wish I could reward him for the 
perilous service he was so ready to undertake. I slipped two 
guineas into his hand, by way of remembrance, as he stood in 


330 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


the doorway, holding the candle to light our departure, with a 
tear in his honest gray eye, and a host of good wishes depicted 
on his solemn countenance. Alas ! I could offer no more : I 
had barely sufficient remaining for the probable expenses of the 
journey. 

What trembling joy it was when the little wicket closed be- 
hind us, as we issued from the park ! Then, for one moment, 
I paused, to inhale one draught of that cool, bracing air, and 
venture one look back upon the house. All was dark and still; 
no light glimmered in the windows; no wreath of smoke ob- 
scured the stars that sparkled above it in the frosty sky. As I 
bade farewell forever to that place, the scene of so much guilt 
and misery, I felt glad that I had not left it before, for now 
there was no doubt about the propriety of such a step — no 
shadow of remorse for him I left behind : there was nothing to 
disturb my joy but the fear of detection; and every step re- 
moved us farther from the chance of that. 

We had left Grassdale many miles behind us before the 
round, red sun arose to welcome our deliverance, and if any 
inhabitant of its vicinity had chanced to see us then, as we 
bowled along on the top of the coach, I scarcely think they 
would have suspected our identity. As I intend to be taken 
for a widow, I thought it advisable to enter my new abode in 
mourning : I was therefore attired in a plain black silk dress 
and mantle, a black vail (which I kept carefully over my face 
for the first twenty or thirty miles of the journey), and a black 
silk bonnet, which I had been constrained to borrow of Rachel 
for want of such an article myself — it was not in the newest 
fashion, of course ; but none the worse for that, under present 
circumstances. Arthur was clad in his plainest clothes, and 
wrapped in a coarse woolen shawl ; and Rachel was muffled 
in a gray cloak and hood that had seen better days, and gave 
her more the appearance of an ordinary, though decent old 
woman, than of a lady’s maid. 

Oh, what delight it was to be thus seated aloft, rumbling 
along the broad, sunshiny road, with the fresh morning breeze 
in my face, surrounded by an unknown country all smiling — 
cheerfully, gloriously, smiling in the yellow luster of those early 
beams — with my darling child in my arms, almost as happy as 
myself, and my faithful friend beside me ; a pnson and despair 
behind me, receding farther, farther back at every clatter of the 
horses’ feet — and liberty and hope before ! I could hardly re- 


THE TENANT OP WILDFELL HALL. 


331 


frain from praising God aloud for my deliverance, or astonishing 
my fellow passengers by some surprising outburst of hilarity. 

But the journey was a very long one, and we were all weary 
enough before the close of it. It was far into the night when 

we reached the town of L , and still we were seven miles 

from our journey’s end; and there was no more coaching — nor 
any conveyance to be had, except a common cart — and that 
with the greatest difficulty, for half the town was in bed. And 
a dreary ride we had of it that last stage of the journey, cold 
and weary as we were ; sitting on our boxes, with nothing to 
cling to, nothing to lean against, slowly dragged and. cruelly 
shaken over the rough, hilly roads. But Arthur was asleep 
in Rachel’s lap, and between us we managed pretty well to 
shield him from the cold night air. 

At last we began to ascend a terribly steep and stony lane 
which, in spite of the darkness, Rachel said she remembered 
well : she had often walked there with me in her arms, and 
little thought to come again so many years after, under such 
circumstances as the present. Arthur being now awakened by 
the jolting and the stoppages, we all got out and walked. We 
had not far to go ; but what if Frederic should not have re- 
ceived my letter ? or if he should not have had time to prepare 
the rooms for our reception ; and we should find them all dark, 
damp, and comfortless ; destitute of food, fire, and furniture, 
after all our toil ] 

At length the grim, dark pile appeared before us. The lane 
conducted us round by the back way. We entered the deso- 
late court, and in breathless anxiety surveyed the ruinous mass. 
Was it all blackness and desolation ? No; one faint red glim- 
mer cheered us from a window where the lattice was in good 
repair. The door was fastened, but after due knocking and 
waiting, and some parleying with a voice from an upper win- 
dow, we were admitted, by an old woman who had been com- 
missioned to air and keep the house till our anival, into a 
tolerably snug little apartment, formerly the scullery of the 
mansion, which Frederic had now fitted up as a kitchen. Here 
she procured us a light, roused the fire to a cheerful blaze, and 
soon prepared a simple repast for our refreshment ; while we 
disencumbered ourselves of our traveling gear, and took a 
hasty survey of our new abode. Besides the kitchen there 
were two bed-rooms, a good sized parlor, and another smaller 
one, which I destined for my studio, all well aired and seem- 


332 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


ingly in good repair, but only partly furnished with a few old 
articles, chiefly of ponderous black oak — the veiitable ones that 
had been there before, and which had been kept as antiquarian 
relics in my brother’s present residence, and now in all haste, , 
transported back again. 

The old woman brought my supper and Arthur’s into the 
parlor, and told me, with alV due formality, that “ The master 
desired his compliments to Mrs. Graham, and he had prepared 
the rooms as well as he could upon so short a notice, but he 
would do himself the pleasure of calling upon her to-morrow, 
to receive her further commands.” 

I was glad to ascend the stern-looking stone staircase, and 
lie down in the gloomy old-fashioned bed, beside my little Ar- 
thur. He was asleep in a minute ; but, weary as I was, my 
excited feelings and restless cogitations kept me awake till dawn 
began to struggle with the darkness; but sleep was sweet and 
refreshing when it came, and the waking was delightful beyond 
expression. It was little Arthur that roused me, with his gen- 
tle kisses. — He was here, then — safely clasped in my arms, and 
many leagues away from his unworthy father ! — Broad daylight 
illumined the apartment, for the sun was high in heaven, though 
obscured by rolling masses of autumnal vapor. 

The scene, indeed, was not remarkably cheerful in itself, 
either within or without. The la^ge bare room with its grim 
old furniture, the narrow, latticed windows, revealing the dull, 
gray sky above, and the desolate wilderness below, where the 
dark stone walls and iron gate, the rank growth of grass and 
weeds, and the hardy evergieens of preternatural forms, alone 
remained to tell there had been once a garden — and the bleak 
and barren fields beyond might have struck me as gloomy 
enough at another time, but now each separate object seemed 
to echo back my own exhilarating sense of hope and freedom : 
indefinite dreams of the far past, and bright anticipations of the 
future, seemed to greet me at every turn. I should rejoice 
with more security, to be sure, had the broad sea rolled be- 
tween my present and my former homes, but surely in this 
lonely spot I might remain unknown ; and then, I had my bro- 
ther here to cheer my solitude with his occasional visits. 

He came that morning ; and I have had several interviews 
with him since ; but he is obliged to be very cautious when 
and how he comes : not even his servants, or his best friends, 
must know of his visits to Wildfell — except on such occasions 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


333 


as a landlord might be expected to call upon a stranger tenant 
— lest suspicion should be excited against me, whether of the 
truth or of some slanderous falsehood. 

I have now been here nearly a fortnight, and but for one 
disturbing care, the haunting dread of discovery, I am comfort- 
ably settled in my new home : Frederic has supplied me with 
all requisite furniture and painting materials : Rachel has sold 
most of my clothes for me, in a distant town, and procured me 
a w’ardrobe more suitable to my present position : I have a 
second-hand piano, and a tolerably well stocked book-case in 
my parlor; and my other room has assumed quite a profes- 
sional, business-like appearance already. I am working hard 
to repay my brother tor all his expenses on my account ; not 
that there is the slightest necessity for any thing of the kind, 
but it pleases me to do so : I shall have so much pleasure in 
my labor, my earnings, my frugal fare, and household economy, 
when I know that I am paying my way honestly, and that what 
little I possess is legitimately all my own ; and that no one suf- 
fers for my folly — in a pecuniary way at least. I shall make 
him take the last penny I owe him, if I can possibly effect it 
without offending him too deeply. I have a few pictures al- 
ready done, for I told Rachel to pack up all I had; and she 
executed her commission but too well, for among the rest, she 
put up a portrait of Mr. Huntingdon that I had painted in the 
first year of my marriage. It struck me with dismay, at the 
moment, when I took it from the box and beheld .those eyes 
fixed upon me in their mocking mirth, as if exulting, still, in his 
power to control my fate, and deriding my efforts to escape. 

How widely different had been my feelings in painting that 
portrait to what they now were in looking upon it ! How I 
had studied and toiled to produce something, as I thought, wor- 
thy of the original! what mingled pleasure and dissatisfaction I 
had in the result of my labors 1 — pleasure for the likeness I had 
caught ; dissatisfaction, because I had not made it handsome 
enough. Now, I see no beauty in it — nothing pleasing in any 
part of its expression ; and yet it is far handsomer and far more 
agreeable — far less repulsive I should rather say — than he is 
now; for these six years have wrought almost as great a change 
on himself as on my feelings regarding him. The frame, how- 
ever, is handsome enough; it will serve for another painting. 
The picture itself I have not destroyed, as I had first intended; 
I have put it aside ; not, I think, from any lurking tenderness 


334 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


for tlie memory of past affection, nor yet to remind me of my 
former folly, but chiefly that I may compare my son’s features 
and countenance with this, as he grows up, and thus be enabled 
to judge how much or how little he resembles his father — if I 
may be allowed to keep him with me still, and never to behold 
that father’s face again — a blessing I dare hardly reckon upon. 

It seems Mr. Huntingdon is making every exertion to discov- 
er the place of my retreat. He has been in person to Staning- 
ley, seeking redress for his grievances — expecting to hear of his 
victims, if not to find them there- — and has told so many lies, and 
with such unblushing coolness, that my uncle more than half 
believes him, and strongly advocates my going back to him and 
being friends again; but my aunt knows better: she is too cool 
and cautious, and too well acquainted with both my husband’s 
character and my own, to be imposed upon by any specious 
falsehoods the former could invent. But he does not want me 
back ; he wants my child ; and gives my friends to understand 
that if I prefer living apart from him, he will indulge the whim 
and let me do so unmolested, and even settle a reasonable al- 
lowance on me, provided I will immediately deliver up his son. 
But, Heaven help me ! I am not going to sell my child for gold, 
though it were to save both him and me from stai'ving : it would 
be better that he should die with me, than that he should live 
with his father. 

Frederic showed me a letter he had received from that 
gentleman, full of cool impudence, such as would astonish any 
one who did not know him, but such as, I am convinced, none 
would know better how to answer than my brother. He gave 
me no account of his reply, except to tell me that he had not 
acknowledged his acquaintance with my place of refuge, but 
rather left it to be inferred that it was quite unknown to him, 
by saying it was useless to apply to him, or any other of my 
relations for information on the subject, as it appeared I had 
been driven to such extremity that I had concealed my retreat 
even from my best friends ; but that if he had known it, or 
should at any time be made aware of it, most certainly Mr. 
Huntingdon would be the last person to whom he snould com- 
municate the intelligence ; and that he need not trouble him- 
self to bargain for the child, for he (Fredeiic) fancied he knew 
enough of his sister to enable him to declare, that wherever 
she might be, or however situated, no consideration wsuld in- 
duce her to deliver him up. 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


335 


30th. — Alas ! my kind neighbors will not let me alone. By 
some means they have ferreted me out, and I have had to sus- 
tain visits Irom three different families, all more or less bent 
upon discovering who and what 1 am, whence I came, and why 
I have chosen such a home as this. Their society is unneces- 
sary to me, to say the least, and their curiosity annoys and 
alarms me. If I gratify it, it may lead to the ruin of my son, 
and if I am too mysterious, it will only excite their suspicions, 
invite conjecture, and rouse them to greater exertions, and 
perhaps be the means of spreading my fame from parish to 
parish, till it reach the ears of some one who will cany it to the 
lord of Grassdale manor. 

I shall be expected to return their calls ; but if, upon inquiry, 
I find that any of them live too far away for Arthur to accom- 
pany me, they must expect in vain fokr a while, for I can not 
bear to leave him, unless it be to go to church ; and I have not 
attempted that yet, for, it may be foolish weakness, but I am 
under such constant dread of his being snatched* away, that I 
am never easy when he is not by my side ; and I fear these 
nervous tenors would so entirely disturb my devotions, that I 
should obtain no benefit from the attendance. I mean, how- 
ever, to make the experiment next Sunday, and oblige myself 
to leave him in charge of Rachel for a few hours. It will be a 
hard task, but surely no imprudence ; and the vicar has been to 
scold me for my neglect of the ordinances of religion. I had 
no sufficient excuse to offer, and I promised, if all were well, 
he should see me in my pew next Sund^’y ; for I do not wish to 
be set down as an infidel, and, besides, I know I should derive 
great comfort and benefit from an occasional attendance at 
public worship, if I could only have faith and fortitude to com- 
pose my thoughts in conformity with the solemn occasion, and 
forbid them to be forever dwelling on my absent child, and on 
the dreadful possibility of finding him gone when I return ; and 
surely God in his mercy will preserve me from so severe a trial ; 
for my child’s own sake, if not for mine, He will not suffer him 
to be torn away. 

November 3d. — I have made some further acquaintance with 
my neighbors. The fine gentleman and beau of the parish and 
its vicinity (in his own estimation, at least), is a young .... 

* # ♦ # ♦ ♦ 


336 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


Here it ended. The rest was torn away. How cruel — just 
when she was going to mention me ! for I could not doubt it 
was your humble servant she was about to mention, though not 
very favorably, of course. I could tell that, as well by those few 
words, as by the recollection of her whole aspect and demeanor 
toward me in the commencement of our acquaintance. Well! 
I could readily forgive her prejudice against me, and her hard 
thoughts of our sex in general, when I saw to what brilliant 
specimens her experience had been limited. 

Respecting me, however, she had long since seen her error, 
and, perhaps, fallen into another in the opposite extreme. For 
if, at first, her opinion of me had been lower than I deserved, I 
was convinced that now my deserts were lower than her opinion ; 
and if the former part of this continuation had been torn away 
to avoid wounding my feelings, perhaps the latter portion had 
been removed for fear of ministering too much to my self-con- 
ceit. At any rate, I would have given much to have seen it all 
— to have witnessed the gradual change, and watched the pro- 
gress of her esteem and friendship for me — and whatever 
warmer feeling she might have — to have seen how much of love 
there was in her regard, and how it had grown upon her in 
spite of her virtuous resolutions and strenuous exertions to — 
but no, I had no right to see it : all this was too sacred for any 
eyes but her own, and she had done well to keep it from me. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

RECONCILIATION. 

Well Halford, what do you think of all this 1 and while you 
read it, did you ever picture to yourself what my feelings would 
probably be during its perusal 'i Most likely not ; but I am not 
going to discant upon them now : I will only make this ac- 
knowledgment, little honorable as it may be to human nature, 
and especially to myself: that the former half of the narrative 
was, to me, more painful than the latter; not that I was at all 
insensible to Mrs. Huntingdon’s wrongs, or unmoved by her 
sufferings, but, I must confess, I felt a kind of selfish gratifica- 
tion in watchinq' her husband’s gradual decline in her good 


THE TEPJANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


337 


graces, and seeing how completely he extinguished all her affec- 
tion at last. The effect of the whole, however, in spite of all 
my sympathy for her and my fury against him, was to relievo 
my mind of an intolerable burden, and fill my heart with joy, as 
if some friend had roused me from a dreadful nightmare. 

It was now near eight o’clock in the morning, for my candle 
had expired in the midst of my perusal, leaving me no alternative 
but to get another, at the expense of alarming the house, or to 
go to bed and wait the return of daylight. On my mother’s 
account, I chose the latter ; but how willingly I sought my pil- 
low, and how much sleep it brought me, I leave you to imagine 

At the first appearance of dawn I rose, and brought the manu- 
script to the window, but it was impossible to read it yet. I 
devoted half an hour to dressing, and then returaed to it again. 
Now, with a little difficulty, I could manage ; and with intense 
and eager interest, I devoured the remainder of its contents. 
When it was ended, and my transient regret at its abrupt con- 
clusion was over, I opened the window and put out my head to 
catch the cooling breeze, and imbibe deep draughts of the pure 
morning air. A splendid moniing it was ; the half-frozen dew 
lay thick on the grass, the swallows were twittering round me, 
the rook cawing and cows lowing in the distance; and early 
frost and summer sunshine mingled their sweetness in the air. 
But I did not think of that : a confusion of countless thoughts 
and varied emotions crowded upon me while I gazed abstract- 
edly on the lovely face of nature. Soon, however, this chaos of 
thoughts and passions cleared away, giving place to two distinct 
emotions — joy unspeakable that my adored Helen was all I 
wished to think her ; that through the noisome vapors of the 
world’s aspersions and my own fancied convictions, her charac- 
ter shone bright, and clear, and stainless as that sun I could not 
bear to look on ; and shame and deep remorse for my own 
conduct. 

Immediately after breakfast, I hurried over to Wildfell Hall. 
Rachel had risen many degrees in my estimation since yester 
day. I was ready to gi*eet her quite as an old friend ; but every 
kindly impulse was checked by the look of cold dtstrust she 
cast upon me on opening the door. The old virgin had con- 
stituted herself the guardian of her lady’s honor, I suppose, 
and doubtless she saw in me another Mr. Hargrave, only the 
more dangerous in being more esteemed and trusted by her 
mistress. 


P 


338 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


“ Missis can’t see any one to-day, sir — she’s poorly,” said she, 
in answer to my inquiry for Mrs. Graham. 

But I must see her, Rachel,” said I, placing my hand on the 
door to prevent its being shut against me. 

“ Indeed, sir, you can’t,” replied she, settling her countenance 
in still more iron frigidity than before. 

“ Be so good as to announce me.” 

“ It’s no manner of use, Mr. Markham ; she’s poorly, I tell you. 

Just in time to prevent me from committing the impropriety 
of taking the citadel by storm, and pushing forward unannounced, 
an inner door opened, and little Arthur appeared with his frolic- 
some playfellow the dog. He seized my hand between both his, 
and smilingly drew me forward. 

“ Mamma says you’re to come in, Mr. Markham,” said he^ 
“ and I’m to go out and play with Rover.” 

Rachel retired with a sigh, and I stepped into the parlor and 
shut the door. There, before the fire-place, stood the tall, grace- 
ful figure, wasted with many sorrows. I cast the manuscript 
on the table, and looked in her face. Anxious and pale, it was 
turned toward me ; her clear, dark eyes were fixed on mine 
with a gaze so intensely earnest that they bound me like a spell. 

“ Have you looked it over 1” she murmured. The spell was 
broken. 

“I’ve read it through,” said I, advancing into the room — “ and 
I want to know if you’ll forgive me — if you can forgive me 

She did not answer, but her eyes glistened, and a faint red 
mantled on her lip and cheek. As I approached, she abruptly 
turned away, and went to the window. It was not in anger, I 
was well assured, but only to conceal or control her emotion. 
I therefore ventured to follow and stand beside her there — but 
not to speak. She gave me her hand, without turning her head, 
and murmured, in a voice she strove in vain to steady — 

“ Can you forgive me 

It might be deemed a breach of trust, I thought, to convey:, 
that lily hand to my lips, so I only gently pressed it between 
my own, and smilingly replied — 

“ I hardly can. You should have told me this before. It 
shows a want of confidence — ” 

“ Oh, no,” cried she, eagerly interrupting me, “ it was not 
that ! It was no want of confidence in you ; but if I had told 
you any thing of my history, I must have told you all, in order 
to excuse my conduct ; and I might well shrink from such a dis- 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


339 


closure, till necessity obliged me to make it. But you forgive 
me 1 I have done very, very wrong, I know ; but, as usual, I 
have reaped the bitter fruits of my own error — and must reap 
them to the end.” 

Bitter, indeed, was the tone of anguish, repressed by reso- 
lute firmness, in which this was spoken. Now, I raised her 
hand to my lips, and fervently kissed it again and again ; for 
tears prevented any other reply. She suffered these wild ca- 
resses without resistance or resentment ; then, suddenly turning 
from me, she paced twice or thrice through the room. I knew 
by the contraction of her brow, the tight compression of her 
lips, and wringing of her hands, that meantime a violent conflict 
between reason and passion was silently passing within. At 
length she paused before the empty fire-place, and turning to 
me, said calmly — if that might be called calmness which was 
so evidently the result of a violent effort — 

“ Now, Gilbert, you must leave me — not this moment, but 
soon — and you must never come again^ 

“ Never again, Helen 1 just when I love you more than ever!” 
“ For that very reason, if it be so, we should not meet again. 
I thought this interview was necessary — at least, I persuaded 
myself it was so — that we might severally ask and receive 
each other’s pardon for the past ; but there can be no excuse 
for another. I shall leave this place, as soon as I have means 
to seek another asylum ; but our intercourse must end here.” 

“ End here 1” echoed I ; and, approaching the high, carved 
chimney-piece, I leaned my hand against its heavy moldings, 
and dropped my forehead upon it in silent, sullen despondency 
“ You must not come again,” continued she. There was a 
slight tremor in her voice, but I thought her whole manner wap 
provokingly composed, considering the dreadful sentence she 
pronounced. “ You must know why I tell you so,” she re- 
sumed ; “ and you must see that it is better to part at once. If 
it be hard to say adieu forever, you ought to help me.” She 
paused. I did not answer. “ Will you promise not to come ? 
If you won’t, and if you do come here again, you will drive 
me away before I know where to find another place of refuge 
— or how to seek it.” 

“ Helen,” said I, turning impatiently toward her “ I can not 
discuss the matter of eternal separation, calmly and dispassion- 
ately, as you can do. It is no question of mere expediency 
with me ; it is a question of life and death !” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


;mo 


She was silent. Her pale lips quivered, and her fingers 
trembled with agitation, as she nervously entwined them in the 
hair chain to which was appended her small gold watch — the 
only thing of value she had permitted herself to keep. I had 
said an unjust and cruel thing ; but I must needs follow it up 
with something worse. 

“But, Helen!” I began in a soft, low tone, not daring to 
raise my eyes to her face — “ that man is not your husband : in 
the sight of Heaven he has forfeited all claim to — ” She seized 
my arm with a grasp of startling energy. 

“ Gilbert^ don't she cried, in a tone that would have pierced 
a heart of adamant. “ For God’s sake, don’t you attempt these 
arguments 1 No Jiend could torture me like this I” 

“ I won’t, I won’t!” said I, gently laying my hand on hers ; 
almost as much alarmed at her vehemence, as ashamed of my 
own misconduct. 

“ Instead of acting like a true friend,” continued she, break- 
ing from me, and throwing herself into the old arm-chair, “ and 
helping me with all your might — or rather taking your own 
part in the struggle of right against passion — you leave all the 
burden to me ; and not satisfied with that, you do your utmost 
to fight against me, when you know that I — ” She paused, 
and hid her face in her handkerchief. 

“Forgive me, Helen!” pleaded I. “I will never utter 
another word on the subject. But may we not still meet as 
friends V' 

“ It will not do,” she replied, mournfully shaking her head ; 
and then she raised her eyes to mine, with a mildly reproach- 
ful look, that seemed to say — “You must know that as well as I.” 

“ Then what must we do ]” cried I, passionately. But im- 
mediately I added in a quieter tone, “I’ll do whatever you de- 
sire ; only don't say that this meeting is to be our last.” 

“ And why not? Don’t you know that every time we meet, 
the thoughts of the final parting will become more painful % 
Don’t you feel that every interview makes us dearer to each 
other than the last V' ' 

The utterance of this last question was hurried and low, and 
the downcast eyes and byirning blush too plainly showed that 
slie^ at least, had felt it. It was .scarcely prudent to make such 
an admission, or to add — as she presently did — “ I have power 
to bid you go, now ; another time it might be different.” But I 
was not base enough to attempt to take advantage of lier candor. 


THE TENANT OP WILDFELL HALL. 


341 


“ But we may write,” I timidly suggested. “ You will not 
deny me that consolation 

We can hear of each other through my brother.” 

“ Your brother !” A pang of remorse and shame shot through 
me. She had not heard of the injury he had sustained at my 
hands ; and I had not the courage to tell her. “ Your brother 
will not help us,” I said ; “ he would have all communion be- 
tween us to be entirely at an end.” 

“ And he would be right, I suppose. As a friend of both, ho 
would wish us both well ; and every friend would tell us it was 
our interest, as well as our duty, to forget each other, though 
we might not see it ourselves. But don’t be afraid, Gilbert,” 
she added, smiling sadly at my manifest discomposure, “ there 
is little chance of my forgetting you. But I did not mean that 
Frederic should be the means of transmitting messages between 
us, only that each might know, through him, of the other’s 
welfare ; and more than this ought not to be ; for you are 
young, Gilbert, and you ought to marry — and will some time, 
though you may think it impossible now ; and though I hardly 
can say I wish you to forget me, I know it is right that you 
should, both for your own happiness and that of your future 
wife ; and therefore I must and will wish it,” she added reso- 
lutely. 

“ And you are young, too, Helen,” I boldly replied ; “ and 
when that profligate scoundrel has run through his career, you 
will give your hand to me — I’ll wnit till then.” 

But she would not leave me this support. Independently of 
the moral evil of basing our hopes upon the death of another, 
who, if unfit for this world, was, at least, no less so for the next, 
and whose amelioration would thus become our bane, and his 
greatest transgression our greatest benefit, she maintained.it to 
be madness : many men of Mr. Huntingdon’s habits had lived 
to a ripe though miserable old age ; “ and if I,” said she, “ am 
young in years, I am old in sorrow ; but even if trouble should 
fail to kill me before vice destroys him, think, if he reached but 
fifty years or so, w^ould you wait twenty or fifteen — in vague un- 
certainty and suspense — through all the prime of youth and 
manhood — and marry, at last, a woman faded and worn as I 
shall be — without ever having seen me from this day to that ? 
You would not,” she continued, interrupting my earnest protest- 
ations of unfailing constancy ; “ or, if you would, you should 
not. Trust me, Gilbert ; in this matter I know better than 


342 


THE TENANT OP WILDFELL HALL. 


you. You think me cold and stony hearted, and you may, 
but—” 

‘‘ I don’t, Helen.” 

“ Well, never mind; you might if you would: but I have not 
spent my solitude in utter idleness, and I am not speaking now 
from the impulse of the moment as you do.^ I have thought 
of all these matters again and again ; I have argued these ques- 
tions with myself, and pondered well our past, and present, and 
future career ; and, believe me, I have come to the right con- 
clusion at last. Trust my words rather than your own feelings, 
now ; and in a few years you will see that I was right — though at 
present I can hardly see it myself,” she murmured, with a sigh, 
as she rested her head on her hand. “ And don’t argue against 
me any more : all you can say has been already said by my own 
heart, and refuted by my reason. It was hard enough to com- 
bat those suggestions as they were whispered within me ; in your 
mouth they are ten times worse ; and if you knew how much 
they pain me, you would cease at once, I know. If you knew 
my present feelings, you would even try to relieve them at the 
expense of your own.” 

“ I will go — in a minute, if that can relieve you — and never 
return !” said I, with bitter emphasis. “ But, if we may never 
meet, and never hope to meet again, is it a crime to exchange 
our thoughts by letter % May not kindred spirits meet, and 
mingle in communion, whatever be the fate and circumstances 
of their earthly tenements I” 

“ They may, they may !” cried she, with a momentary burst 
of glad enthusiasm. “ I thought of that, too, Gilbert, but I feared 
to mention it, because I feared you would not understand my 
views upon the subject. I fear it even now. I fear any kind 
friend would tell us we are both deluding ourselves with the idea 
of keeping up a spiritual intercourse without hope or prospect 
of any thing further — without fo^ering vain regrets and hurtful 
aspirations, and feeding thoughts that should be sternly and pit- 
ilessly left to perish of inanition — ” 

“ Never mind our kind friends : if they can part our bodies, 
it is enough ; in God’s name, let them not sunder our souls !” 
cried I, in terror, lest she should deem it her duty to deny us 
this last remaining consolation. 

“ But no letters can pass between us here,” said she, “ with- 
out giving fresh food for scandal; and when I departed, 1 had 
intended that my new abode should be unknown to you as to 


THE TENANT OP WILDFELL HALL. 


343 


the rest of the world ; not that I should doubt your word if you 
promised not to visit me, but I thought you would be more tran- 
quil in your own mind if you knew you could not do it ; and 
likely to find less difficulty in abstracting yourself from me, if you 
could not picture my situation to your mind. But listen,” said 
she, smilingly putting up her finger to check my impatient reply : 
“ in six months you shall hear from Frederic precisely where I 
am ; and if you still retain your wish to write to me, and think 
you can maintain a correspondence all thought, all spirit — such 
as disembodied souls or unimpassioned friends, at least, might 
hold — write, and I will answer you.” 

“ Six months !” 

“ Yes, to give your present ardor time to cool and try the 
truth and constancy of your soul’s love for mine. And now, 
enough has been said between us. Why can’t we part at once !” 
exclaimed she, almost wildly, after a moment’s pause, as she sud- 
denly rose from her chair, with her hands resolutely clasped to- 
gether. I thought it was my duty to go without delay ; and I 
approached and half extended my hand, as if to take leave : 
she grasped it in silence. But this thought of final separation 
was too intolerable : it seemed to squeeze the blood out of my 
heart ; and my feet were glued to the floor. 

“ And must we never meet again ?” I murmured, in the an- 
guish of my soul, 

“We shall meet in heaven. Let us think of that,” said she, 
in a tone of desperate calmness ; but her eyes glittered wildly, 
and her face was deadly pale. 

“ But not as we are now,” I could not help replying. “ It 
gives me little consolation to think I shall next behold you as a 
disembodied spirit, or an altered being, with a frame perfect and 
glorious, but not like this ! and a heart, perhaps, entirely 
estranged from me.” 

“ No, Gilbert, there is perfect love in heaven !” 

“ So perfect, I suppose, that it soars above distinctions, and 
you will have no closer sympathy with me than with any one 
of the ten thousand thousand angels and the innumerable mul- 
titude of happy spiiits round us.” 

“Whatever I am, you will be the same, and therefore can 
not possibly regret it ; and whatever that change may be, we 
know it must be for the better.” 

“ But if I am to be so changed that I shall cease to adore you 
with my whole heart and soul, and love you beyond every other 


344 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


creature, I shall not be myself ; and though, if ever I vv^in heaven 
at all, I must, I know, be infinitely better and happier than I am 
now, my earthly nature can not rejoice in the anticipation of 
such beatitude, from which itself and its chief joy must be ex- 
cluded.” 

“ Is your love all earthly, then 

“ No, but I am supposing we shall have no more intimate 
communion with each other, than with the rest.” 

“ If so, it will be because we love them more, and not each 
other less. Increase of love brings increase of happiness, when 
it is mutual, and pure as that will be.” 

“ But can you^ Helen, contemplate with delight this prospect 
of losing me in a sea of glory ]” 

“ I own I can not ; but we know not that it will be so ; and I 
do know that' to regret the exchange of earthly pleasures for 
the joys of heaven, is as if the groveling caterpillar should 
lament that it must one day quit the nibbled leaf to soar aloft 
and flutter through the air, roving at will from flower to flower, 
sipping sweet honey fi'om their cups, or basking in their sunny 
petals. If these little creatures knew how great a change 
awaited them, no doubt they would regret it ; but would not 
all such sorrow be misplaced 1 And if that illustration will not 
move you, here is another : — We are children now; we feel as 
children, and we understand as children ; and when we are told 
that men and women do not j)lay with toys, and that our com- 
panions will one day weary of the trivial sports and occupations 
that interest them and us so deeply now, we can not help being 
saddened at the thought of such an alteration, because we can 
not conceive that as we grow up, our own minds will become so 
enlarged and elevated that we ourselves shall then regard as 
trifling those objects and pursuits we now so fondly cherish, and 
that, though our companions will no longer join us in those 
childish pastimes, they will drink with us at other fountains of 
delight, and mingle their souls with ours in higher aims and 
nobler occupations beyond our present comprehension, but not 
less deeply relished or less truly good for that — while yet both 
we and they remain essentially the same individuals as before. 
But, Gilbert, can you really derive no consolation from the 
thought that we may meet together where there is no rhore pain 
and sorrow, no more striving against sin, and struggling of the 
spirit against the flesh ; where both will behold the same glori- 
ous truths, and drink exalted and supreme felicity from the same 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


345 


fountain of light and goodness — that Being whom both will 
worship with the same intensity of holy ardor, and where pure 
and happy creatures both will love with the same livine affec- 
tion % If you can not, never write to me.” 

“ Helen, I can ! if faith would never fail.” 

“ Now, then,” exclaimed she, “ while this hope is strong within 
us — ” 

“We will part,” I cried. “You shall not have the pain of 
another effort to dismiss me. I will go at once; but — ” 

I did not put my request in words. She understood it instinct- 
ively, and this time she yielded too — or rather, there was noth- 
ing so deliberate as requesting or yielding in the matter ; there 
was a sudden impulse that neither could resist. One moment I 
stood and looked into her face; the next I held her to my heart, 
and we seemed to grow together in a close embrace from which 
no physical or mental force could rend us. A whispered “ God 
bless you!” and “Go — go!” was all she said; but while she 
spoke, she held me so fast that, without violence, I could not 
have obeyed her. At length, however, by some heroic effort, 
we tore ourselves apart, and I rushed fi-om the house. 

I have a confused remembrance of seeing little Arthur running 
up the garden walk to meet me, and of bolting over the wall 
to avoid him — and subsequently running down the steep fields, 
clearing the stone fences and hedges as they came in my way, 
till I got completely out of sight ^of the old Hall, and down to 
the bottom of the hill; and then of long hours spent in bitter 
tears and lamentations, and melancholy musings in the lonely 
valley, with the eternal music in my ears, of the west wind 
rushing through the overshadowing trees, and the brook bab- 
bling and gurgling along its stony bed — my eyes, for the most 
part, vacantly fixed on the deep, checkered shades restlessly 
playing over the bright sunny grass at my feet, v/here now and 
then a withered leaf or two would come dancing to share the 
reveliy, but my heart was away up the hill in that dark room 
where she was weeping, desolate and alone — she whom I was 
not to comfort, not to see again, till years or suffering had over- 
come us both, and torn our spirits from their perishing abodes 
of clay. 

There was little business done that day, you may be sure. 
The farm was abandoned to the laborers, and the laborers were 
left to their own devices. But one duty must be attended to : 
I had not forgotten my assault upon Frederic Lawrence; nn^ 

p* W 


346 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


I must see him to apologize for the unhappy deed. I would 
fain have put it off till the morrow; but what if he should de- 
nounce me to his sister in the mean time 1 No, no, I must ask 
his pardon to-day, and entreat him to be lenient in his accusation, 
if the revelation must be made. I deferred it, however, till the 
evening, when my spirits were more composed, and when — oh, 
wonderful perversity of human nature ! — some faint germs of 
indefinite hopes were beginning to rise in my mind ; not that I 
intended to cherish them, after all that had been said on the 
subject, but there they must lie for a while, uncrushed though 
not encouraged, till I had learned to live without them. 

Arrived at Woodford, the young squire’s abode, I found no 
little difficulty in obtaining admission to his presence. The 
servant that opened the door told me his master was very ill, 
and seemed to think it doubtful whether he would be able to 
see me. I was not going to be balked however. I waited 
calmly in the hall to be announced, but inwardly determined to 
take no denial. The message was such as I expected — a polite 
intimation that Mr. Lawrence could see no one; he was fever- 
ish, and must not be disturbed. 

“ I shall not disturb him long,” said I ; “ but I must see him 
for a moment : it is on business of importance that I wish to 
speak to him.” 

“ I’ll tell him, sir,” said the man. And I advanced farthei 
into the hall and followed him nearly to the door of the apart- 
ment where his master was — for it seemed he was not in bed. 
The answer returned was, that Mr. Lawrence hoped I would 
be so good as to leave a message or a note with the servant, as 
he could attend to no business at present. 

“ He may as well see me as you,” said I ; and, stepping past 
the astonished footman, I boldly rapped at the door, entered, 
and closed it behind me. The room was spacious and hand- 
somely fuiTiished — very comfortably, too, for a bachelor. A 
clear, red fire was burning in the polished grate : a superannu- 
ated grayhound, given up to idleness and good living lay basking 
before it on the thick, soft rug, on one corner of which, beside 
the sofa, sat a smart young springer, looking wistfully up in its 
master’s face; perhaps, asking permission to share his couch, 
or, it might be, only soliciting a caress from his hand or a kind 
word from his lips. The invalid himself looked very interesting as 
he lay reclining there, in his elegant dressing-gown, with a silk 
handkerchief bound across his temples. His usually pale face 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


347 


was flushed and feverish ; his eyes were half closed, until he 
became sensible of my presence — and then he opened them 
wide enough ; one hand was thrown listlessly over the back of 
the sofa, and held a small volume with which, apparently, he 
had been vainly attempting to beguile the weary hours. He 
dropped it, however, in his start of indignant surprise as I 
advanced into the room and stood before him on the rug. He 
raised himself on his pillows and gazed upon me with equal 
degrees of nervous horror, anger, and amazement depicted on 
his countenance. 

“ Mr. Markham, I scarcely expected this!” he said; and the 
blood left his cheek as he spoke. 

“ I know you didn’t,” answered I ; “ but be quiet a minute, 
and I’ll tell you what I came for.” Unthinkingly I advanced a 
step or two nearer. He winced at my approach, with an 
expression of aversion and instinctive physical fear, any thing 
but conciliatory to my feelings. I stepped back, however. 

“ Make your story a short one,” said he, putting his hand on 
the small silver bell that stood on the table beside him, “ or I 
shall be obliged to call for assistance. I am in no state to bear 
your brutalities now, or your presence either.” And in truth 
the moisture started from his pores and stood on his pale fore- 
head like dew. 

Such a reception was hardly calculated to diminish the diffi- 
culties of my unenviable task. It must be performed, however, 
in some fashion: and so I plunged into it at once, and floundered 
through it as I could. 

“ The truth is, Lawrence,” said I, “ I have not acted quite 
coiTectly toward you of late — especially on this last occasion ; 
and I’m come to — in short, to express my regret for what has 
been done, and to beg your pardon. If you don’t choose to 
grant it,” I added hastily, not liking the aspect of his face, 
“ it’s no matter — only, I^ve done my duty — that’s all.” 

“ It’s easily done,” replied he, with a faint smile bordering on 
a sneer : “ to abuse your friend and knock him on the head, 
without any assignable cause, and then tell him the deed was 
not quite correct, but it’s no matter whether he pardons it or 
not.” 

“ I forgot to tell you that it was in consequence of a mistake,” 
muttered I. “ I should have made a very handsome apology, 
but you provoked me so confoundedly with your — . Well, I 
suppose it’s my fault. The fact is, I didn’t know that you were 


348 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


Mrs. Graham’s brother, and I saw and heard some things 
respecting your conduct toward her, which were calculated to 
awaken unpleasant suspicions, that allow me to say, a little can- 
dor and confidence on your part might have removed ; and at 
last, I chanced to overhear a part of a conversation between you 
and her that, made me think I had a right to hate you.” 

“And how came you to know that I was her brother'!” asked 
he, in some anxiety. 

“ She told me herself. She told me all. She knew I might 
be trusted. But you needn’t disturb yourself about that, Mr. 
Lawrence, for I’ve seen the last of her !” 

“ The last ! is she gone then “I” 

“ No, but she has bid adieu to me ; and I have promised 
never to go near that house again while she inhabits it.” I 
could have groaned aloud at the bitter thoughts awakened by 
this turn in the discourse. But I only clenched my hands, and 
stamped my foot upon the rug. My companion, howas^er, was 
evidently relieved. 

“You have done right!” he said, in a tone of unqualified 
approbation, while his face brightened into almost a sunny 
expression. “ And as for the mistake, I am sorry, for both our 
sakes, that it should have occurred. Perhaps you can forgive 
my want of candor, and, remember, as some partial mitigation 
of the offense, how little encouragement to fi'iendly confidence 
you have given me of late.” 

“ Yes, yes, I remember it all. Nobody can blame me more 
than I blame myself in my own heart — at any rate, nobody can 
regret more sincerely than I do, the result of my brutality, as 
you rightly term it.” 

“ Never mind that,” said he, faintly smiling ; “ let us forget all 
unpleasant words on both sides, as well as deeds, and consign 
to oblivion every thing that we have cause to regret. Have you 
any objection to take my hand 1 — or you’d rather not V* It 
trembled through weakness, as he held it out, and dropped be- 
fore I had time to catch it, and give it a hearty squeeze, which 
he had not the strength to return. 

“ How dry and buniing your hand is, Lawrence,” said I. 
“ You are really ill, and I have made you worse by all this talk.” 

“ Oh, it is nothing : only a cold got by the rain.” 

“ My doing, too.” 

“ Never mind that. But tell me, did you mention this affair 
to my sister 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


349 


“ To confess the truth, I had not the courage to do so; but 
when you tell her, will you just say that I deeply regret it, 
and — ” 

“ Oh, never fear ! I shall say nothing against you, as long as 
you keep your good resolution of remaining aloof from her. 
She has not heard of my illness then, that you are aware of 
“ I think not.^’ 

“ I’m glad of that, for I have been all this time tormenting 
myself with the fear that somebody would tell her I was dying, 
or desperately ill, and she would be either distressing herself on 
account of her inability to hear from me or do me any good, or 
perhaps committing the madness of coming to see me. I must 
contrive to let her know something about it, if I can,” continued 
he reflectively, “ or she will be hearing some such story. Many 
would be glad to tell her such news, just to see how she would 
take it, and then she might expose herself to fresh scandal.” 

“ I wish I had told her,” said I. “ If it were not for my 
promise, I would tell her now.” 

“ By no means ! I am not dreaming of that; but if I were 
to write a short note, now — not mentioning you, Markham, but 
just giving a slight account of my illness, by way of excuse for 
my not coming to see her, and to put her on her guard against 
any exaggerated reports she may hear, and address it in a dis- 
guised hand — would you do me the favor to slip it into the post- 
oflice as you pass 1 for I dare not trust any of the servants in 
such a case.” 

Most willingly I consented, and immediately brought him his 
desk. There was little need to disguise his hand, for the poor 
fellow seemed to have considerable difficulty in writing at all, 
so as to be legible. When the note was done, I thought it 
time to retire, and took leave, after asking if there w’as any 
thing in the world I could do for him, little or great, in the way 
of alleviating his sufferings, and repairing the injury I had 
done. 

“ No,” said he ; “ you have already done much toward it ; 
you have done more for me than the most skillful physician 
could do, for you have relieved my mind of two gi’eat burdens 
— anxiety on my sister’s account, and deep regret upon your 
own; for I do believe these two sources of torment have had 
more effect in w’orking me up into a fever than any thing else, 
and I am persuaded I shall soon recover now. There is one 
more thing you can do for me, and that is, come and see me 


350 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


now and then : for you see I am very lonely here, and I prom- 
ise your entrance shall not be disputed again.” 

I engaged to do so, and departed with a cordial pressure of 
the hand. I posted the letter on my way home, most manfully 
resisting the temptation of dropping in a word for myself at the 
same time. 


CHAPTER XL VI. 

FRIENDLY COUNSELS. 

I FELT Strongly tempted, at times, to enlighten my mother 
and sister on the real character and circumstances of the perse- 
cuted tenant of Wildfell Hall ; and at first, I greatly regretted 
having omitted to ask that lady’s permission to do so. But, on 
due reflection, I considered, that if it were known to them, it 
could not long remain a secret to the Millwards and Wilsons ; 
and such was my present appreciation of Eliza Millward’s dis- 
position, that, if once she got a clue to the story, I should fear 
she would soon find means to enlighten Mr. Huntingdon upon 
the place of his wife’s retreat. I would therefore wait patiently 
till these weary six months were over, and then, when the fugi- 
tive had found another home, and I was permitted to write to 
her, I would beg to be allowed to clear her name from these 
vile calumnies. At present I must content myself with simply 
asserting that I knew them to be false, and would prove it some 
day, to the shame of those who slandered her. I don’t think 
any body believed me ; but every body soon learned to avoid 
insinuating a word against her, or even mentioning her name, in 
my presence. They thought I was so madly infatuated by the 
seductions of, that unhappy lady, that I was determined to sup- 
port her in the very face of reason ; and meantime I grew in- 
supportably morose and misanthropical from the idea that every 
one I met was harboring unworthy thoughts of the supposed 
Mrs. Graham, and would express them if he dared. My poor 
mother was quite distressed about me, but I couldn’t help it — 
at least I thought I could not; though sometimes I felt a pang 
of remorse for my undutiful conduct to her, and made an effort 
to amend, attended with some partial success — and indeed I 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


351 


was generally more humanized in my demeanor to her than to 
any one else, Mr. Lawrence excepted. Rose and Fergus usually 
shunned my presence ; and it was well they did, for I was not 
fit company for them, nor they for me, under the present cir- 
cumstances. 

Mrs. Huntingdon did not leave Wildfell Hall till above two 
months after our farewell interview. During that time she 
never appeared at church, and I never went near the house : I 
only knew she was still there by her brother’s brief answers to 
my many and varied inquiries respecting her. I was a very 
constant and attentive visitor to him throughout the whole 
period of his illness and convalescence ; not only from the in- 
terest I took in his recoveiy, and my desire to cheer him up 
and make the utmost possible amends for my former “ brutality,” 
but from my growing attachment to himself, and the increasing 
pleasure I found in his society — partly, from his increased cor- 
diality to me, but chiefly on account of his close connection — 
both in blood and in affection — with my adored Helen. I loved 
him for it better than I liked to express ; and I took a secret 
delight in pressing those slender, white fingers, so marvelously 
like her own, considering he was not a woman, and in watch- 
ing the passing changes in his fair, pale features, and observing 
the intonations of his voice— detecting resemblances which I 
wondered had never struck me before. He provoked me at 
times, indeed, by his evident reluctance to talk to me about his 
sister, though I did not question the friendliness of his motives 
in wishing to discourage my remembrance of her. 

His recovery was not quite so rapid as he had expected it to 
be : he was not able to mount his pony till a fortnight after the 
date of our reconciliation ; and the first use he made of his re- 
turning strength, was to ride over by night to Wildfell Hall, to 
see his sister. It was a hazardous enterprise both for him and 
for her, but he thought it necessary to consult with her on the 
subject of her projected departure, if not to calm her apprehen- 
sions respecting his health ; and the worst result was a slight 
relapse of his illness ; for no one knew of the visit, but the in- 
mates of the old Hall — except myself ; and I believe it had not 
been his intention to mention it to me, for when I came to see 
him the next day, and observed he was not so well as he ought 
to have been, he merely said he had caught cold by being out 
too late in the evening. 

“ You’ll never be able to see your sister, if you don’t take 


352 


THE TENANT OF VVILDFELL HALL. 


care of yourself,” said I, a little provoked at the circumstance 
on her account, instead of commiserating him. 

“ I’ve seen her already,” said he, quietly. 

“ You’ve seen her !” cried T, in astonishment. 

“Yes.” And then he told me ’svhat considerations had 
polled him to make the venture, and' with what precautions he 
had made it. 

“ And how was she V’ I eagerly asked. 

“ As usual,” was the brief though sad reply. 

“ As usual — that is, far from happy and far from strong.” 

“ She is' not positively ill,” returned he ; “ and she will^re- 
cover her spirits in a while, 1 have no doubt — but so many trials 
have been almost too much for' her. How threatening those 
clouds look !” continued he, turning toward the window. “ We 
shall have thunder showers before night, I imagine ; and they 
are just in the midst of stacking my corn. Have you got yours 
all in yet 

“ No. — And, Lawrence, did she — did your sister mention 
me ]” ^ 

“ She asked if I had seen you latmy.” 

“ And what else did she say I” 

“ I can not tell you ail she said,” replied he, with a slight 
smile, “ for we talked a good deal, though my stay was but 
short ; but our conversation was chiefly on the subject of her 
intended departure, which I begged her to delay till I was bet- 
ter able to assist her in her search after another home.” 

“ But did she say no more about me I” 

“ She did not say much about you, Markham. I should not 
have encouraged her to do so, had she been inclined ; but hap- 
pily she was not : she only asked a few questions concerning 
you, and seemed satisfied with my brief answers ; wherein she 
showed herself wiser than her friend — and I may tell you too, 
that she seemed to be far more anxious lest you should think 
too much of her, than lest you should forget her.” 

“ She was right.” 

“ But I fear your anxiety is quite the other way, respecting 
her.” • * 

“ No, it is not : I wish her to be happy ; but I don’t wish her 
to forget me altogether. She knows it is impossible that I 
should forget her ; and she is right to wish me not to remem- 
ber her too well. I should not desire her to regi'et me too 
deeply ; but I can scarcely imagine she will make herself Very 


THE TENANT OP WILDFELL HALL. 


353 


unhappy about me, because I know I am not worthy of it, ex- 
cept in my appreciation of her.” 

“ You are neither of you worthy of a broken heart — nor of 
all the sighs, and tears, and soiTowful thoughts that have been, 
^and I fear will be wasted upon you both ; but at present, each 
has a more exalted opinion of the other than, I fear, he or she 
deserves ; and my sister’s feelings are naturally full as keen as 
yours, and I believe more constant ; but she has the good sense 
and fortitude to strive against them in this particular; and I 
trust she will not rest till she has entirely weaned her thoughts — ” 
He hesitated. 

“ From me,” said I. 

“ And I wish you would make the like exertions,” continued he. 

“ Did she tell you that that was her intention 1” 

“ No, the question was not broached between us : there was 
no necessity for it, for I had no doubt that such was her deter- 
mination.” 

“ To forget me I” 

“ Yes, Markham ! Why not 1” 

“ Oh ! well,” was my only audible reply ; but I internally 
answered — “ No, Lawrence, you’re wrong there, she is not de- 
termined to forget me. It would be wrong to forget one so 
deeply and fondly devoted to her, who can so thoroughly appre- 
ciate her excellencies and sympathize with all her thoughts, as 
I can do ; and it would be wrong in me to forget so excellent 
and divine a piece of God’s creation as she, when I have once 
so truly loved and known her.” But I said no more to him on 
that subject. I instantly started a new topic of conversation, 
and soon took leave of my companion, with a feeling of less 
cordiality toward him than usual. Perhaps I had no right to 
be annoyed at him, but I was so, nevertheless. 

In little more than a week after this, I met him returning 
from a visit to the Wilsons ; and I now resolved to do him a 
good turn, though at the expense of his feelings, and perhaps, 
at the risk of incurring that displeasure which is so commonly 
the reward of those who give disagreeable information, or ten- 
der their advice unasked. In this, believe me, I was actuated 
by no motives of revenge for the occasional annoyances I had 
lately sustained fi'om him, nor yet by any feeling of malevolent 
enmity toward Miss Wilson, but purely by the fact that I could 
not endure that such a woman should be Mrs. Huntingdon’s 
sister, and that, as well for his own sake as for hers, I could 


854 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


not bear to think of bis being deceived into a union with one so 
unworthy of him, and so utterly unfitted to be the partner of 
his quiet home, and the companion of his life. He had had un- 
comfortable suspicions on that head himself, I imagined, but 
such was his inexperience, and such were the lady’s powers of 
attraction, and her skill in bringing them to bear upon his young 
imagination, that they had not disturbed him long, and I be- 
lieve the only effectual cause of the vacillating indecision that 
had preserved him hitherto from making an actual declaration 
of love, was the consideration of her connections, and especially 
of her mother, whom he could not abide. Had they lived at a 
distance, he might have surmounted the objection, but within 
two or three miles of Woodford, it was really no light matter. 

“ You’ve been to call on the Wilsons, Lawrence,” said I, as I 
walked beside his pony. 

“ Yes,” replied he, slightly averting his face: “I thought it 
but civil to take the first opportunity of returning their kind 
attentions, since they have been so very particular and constant 
in their inquiries, throughout the whole course of my illness.” 

“ It’^s all Miss Wilson’s doing.” 

“ And if it is,” returned he, with a very perceptible blush, 
“is that any reason why I should not make a suitable ackowl- 
edgment.” 

“ It is a reason why you should not make the acknowledg- 
ment she looks for.” 

“ Let us drop that subject, if you please,” said he in evident 
displeasure. 

“ No, Lawrence, with your leave we’ll continue it a while 
longer ; and I’ll tell you something, now we’re about it, which 
you may believe or not, as you choose — only please to remem- 
ber that it is not my custom to speak falsely, and that, in this 
case, I can have no motive for misrepresenting the tnith — ” 

“Well, Markham! what now 1” 

“ Miss Wilson hates your sister. It may be natural enough 
that, in her ignorance of the relationship, she should feel some 
degree of enmity against her, but no good or amiable woman 
would be capable of evincing that bitter, cold-blooded, designing 
malice toward a fancied rival that I have obsei*ved in her.” 

“ Markham 1” 

“ Yes — and it is my belief that Eliza Millward and she, if 
not the very originators of the slanderous reports that have 
been propagated, were designedly the encouragers and chief 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL PIALL. 


355 


disseminators of them. She was not desirous to mix up your 
name in the matter, of course, but her delight was, and still is, 
to blacken your sister’s character to the utmost of her power, 
without risking too greatly the exposure of her own malevo- 
lence !” 

“ I can not believe it interrupted my companion, his face 
burning with indignation. 

“ Well, as I can not prove it, I must content myself with as- 
serting that it is so, to the best of my belief; but as you would 
not willingly marry Miss Wilson if it were so, you will do well 
to be cautious, till you have proved it to be otherwise.” 

“ I never told you, Markham, that I intended to marry Miss 
Wilson,” said he proudly. 

“ No, but whether you do or not, she intends to marry you.” 

“ Did she tell you so 

“ No, but — ” 

“ Then you have no right to make such an assertion respect- 
ing her.” He slightly quickened his pony’s pace, but I laid my 
hand on its mane, determined he should not leave me yet. 

“Wait a moment, Lawrence, and let me explain myself; and 
don’t be so very — I don’t know what to call it — inaccessible as 
you are. I know what you think of Jane Wilson ; and I be- 
lieve I know how far you are mistaken in your opinion : you 
think she is singularly charming, elegant, sensible, and refined : 
you are not aware that she is selfish, cold-hearted, ambitious, 
artful, shallow-minded — ” 

Enough, Markham, enough.” 

“No; let me finish — you don’t know that, if you married her, 
your home would be rayless and comfortless; and it would break 
your heart at last to find yourself united to one so wholly inca 
pable of sharing your tastes, feelings, and ideas — so utterly des- 
titute of sensibility, good feeling, and true nobility of soul.” 

“ Have you done V’ asked my companion quietly. 

“ Yes — I know you hate me for my impertinence, but I don’t 
care, if it only conduces to preserve you from that fatal mistake.’ 

“Well !” returned he, with a rather wintry smile, “ I’m glad 
you have overcome or forgotten your own afflictions so far as 
to be able to study so deeply the affairs of others, and trouble 
your head, so unnecessarily, about the fancied or possible calam- 
ities of their future life.” 

We parted — somewhat coldly again ; but still we did not 
cease to be friends ; and my well-meant warning, though it 


35G 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


might have been more judiciously delivered, as well as more 
thankfully received, was not wholly unproductive of the desired 
effect : his visit to the Wilsons was not repeated ; and, though, 
in our subsequent interviews, he never mentioned her name to 
me, nor I to him — I have reason to believe he pondered my 
words in his mind, eagerly though covertly sought information 
respecting the fair lady from other quarters, secretly compared 
my character of her with what he had himself o^ei'ved and 
what he had heard from others, and finally came to the conclu- 
sion that, all things considered, she had much better remain 
Miss Wilson of Ryecote Farm, than be transmuted into Mrs. 
Lawrence of Woodford Hall. I believe, too, that he soon 
learned to contemplate with secret amazement his former pre- 
dilection, and to congratulate himself on the lucky escape he 
had made; but he never confessed it to me, or hinted one word 
of acknowledgment for the part I had had in his deliverance — 
but this was not surprising to any one that knew him as I did. 

As for Jane Wilson, she, of course, was disappointed and 
embittered by the sudden cold neglect, and ultimate desertion 
of her former admirer. Had I done wrong to blight her cher- 
ished hopes % I think not ; and certainly my conscience has 
never accused me, from that day to this, of any evil design in 
the matter. 


/ 


CHAPTER XL VII. 

STARTLING INTELLIGENCE. 

One morning, about the beginning of November, while I was 
inditing some business letters, shortly after breakfast, Eliza 
Mill ward came to call upon my sister. Rose had neither the 
discrimination nor the virulence to regard the little demon as 
I did, and they still preserved their former intimacy. At the 
moment of her arrival, however, there was no one in the room 
but Fergus and myself, my mother and sister being both of 
them absent, “ on household cares intent but I was not o-oine- 
to lay myself out for her amusement, whoever else mijrht so in- 
cline : I merely honored her with a careless salutation and a 
few words of course, and then went on with my writing, leaving 


THE TENANT OF VVILDFELL HALL. 


.357 


my brother to be more polite if he chose. But she wanted to 
tease me. 

“ What a pleasure it is to find you at home, Mr. Markham !” 
said she, with a disingenuously malicious smile. “ I so seldom 
see you now, for you never come to the vicarage. Papa is 
quite offended, 1 can tell you,” she added playfully, looking into 
my face with an impertinent laugh, as she seated herself, half 
beside and half before my desk, off the corner of the table. 

“ I have had a good deal to do of late,” said I, without look- 
ing up from my letter. 

“ Have you indeed ! Somebody said you had been strangely 
neglecting your business these last few months.” 

“ Somebody said wrong ; for these last iwo months, especial- 
ly, I have been particularly plodding and diligent.” 

“Ah ! Well, there’s nothing like active employment, I sup- 
pose, to console the afflicted ; and, excuse me, Mr. Markham, 
but you look so very far from well, and have been, by all ac- 
counts, so moody and thoughtful of late, I could almost think 
you have some secret care preying on your spirits. Former- 
ly,^' said she timidly, “ I could have ventured to ask you 
what it was, and what I could do to comfort you: I dare not 
do it now.” 

“ You’re very kind. Miss Eliza. When I think you can do 
any thing to comfort me. I’ll make bold to tell you.” 

“ Pray do ! — I suppose I mayn’t guess what it is that trou- 
bles you V' 

“ There’s no necessity, for I’ll tell you plainly. The thing 
that troubles me the most at present, is a young lady sitting at 
my elbow, and preventing me from finishing my letter, and 
thereafter repairing to my daily business.” 

Before she could reply to this ungallant speech. Rose entered 
the room ; and Miss Eliza rising to greet her, they both seat- 
ed themselves near the fire, where that idle lad, Fergus, was 
standing, leaning his shoulder against the corner of the chim- 
ney-piece, with his legs crossed and his hands in his breeches 
pockets. 

“ Now, Rose, I’ll tell you a piece of news — I hope you’ve 
pot heard it before, for good, bad, or indifferent, one always 
likes to be the first to tell. — It’s about that sad Mrs. Gra- 
ham — ” 

“ Hush — sh — sh !” whispered Fergus, in a tone of solemn 
import. “ ‘ We never mention her ; her name is never heard.’ ” 


358 


THE Tenant of wildfell hall. 


And glancing up, I caught him with his eye askance on me, 
and his finger pointed to his forehead ; then, winking at the 
young lady with a doleful shake of the head, he whispered — “ a 
monomania — but don’t mention it — all right but that.” 

“ I should be sorry to injure any one’s feelings,” returned 
she, speaking below her breath, “ another time, perhaps.” 

” Speak out. Miss Eliza !” said I, not deigning to notice the 
other’s buffooneries, “ you needn’t fear to say any thing in my 
presence — that is true” 

“ Well, answered she, “perhaps you know already that Mrs. 
Graham’s husband is not really dead, and that she had run 
away from him I started, and felt my face glow ; but I bent 
it over my letter, and went on folding it up as she proceeded, 
“ but perhaps you did not know that she is now gone back to him 
again, and that a perfect reconciliation has taken place between 
them h Only think,” she continued, turning to the confounded 
Rose, “ what a fool the man must be !” 

“ And who gave you this piece of intelligence. Miss Eliza 
said I, interrupting my sister’s exclamations. 

, “ I had it from a very authentic source, sir.” 

“ From whom, may I ask 'i” 

“ From one of the servants at Woodford.” 

“ Oh ! I was not aware that you were on such intimate terms 
with Mr. Lawrence’s household.” 

“ It was not from the man himself, that 1 heard it : but he 
told it in confidence to our maid, Sarah, and Sarah told it to 
rne.” 

“ In confidence, I suppose ; and you tell it in confidence to 
us ; but I can tell you that it is but a lame story, after all, and 
scarcely, one half of it true.” 

While I spoke, I completed the sealing and direction of my 
letters, with a somewhat unsteady hand, in spite of all my ef- 
forts to retain composure, and in spite of my firm conviction 
that the story was a lame one — that the supposed Mrs. Graham, 
most certainly, had not voluntarily gone back to her husband, 
or dreamed of a reconciliation. Most likely, she was gone 
away, and the tale-bearing servant, not knowing what was be- 
come of her, had conjectured that such was the case, and our 
fair visitor had detailed it as a certainty — delighted with such 
an opportunity of tormenting me. But it was possible — barely 
possible, that some one might have betrayed her, and she had 
been taken away by force. Determined to know the worst, I 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


o') 9 


hastily pocketed my two letters, and muttering something about 
being too late for the post, left the room, rushed into the yard, 
and vociferously cabled for my horse. No one being there, I 
dragged him out of the stable myself, strapped the saddle on to 
his back and the bridle on to his head, mounted, and speedily 
galloped away to Woodford. I found its owner pensively 
strolling in the grounds. 

“ Is your sister gonel” were my first words as I grasped his 
hand, instead of the usual inquiry after his health. 

“ Yes; she’s gone,” was his answer, so calmly spoken, tnat 
my terror was at once removed. 

” I suppose I mayn’t know where she is V’ said I, as I dis- 
mounted and relinquished my horse to the gardener, who, be- 
ing the only servant within call, had been summoned by his 
master, from his employment of raking up the dead leaves on 
the lawn, to take him to the stable. 

My companion gravely took my arm, and leading me away 
to the garden, thus answered my question : — 

“ She is at Grassdale manor, in shire.” 

“ Where ! ” cried I, with a convulsive start. 

“ At Grassdale manor.” 

“ How was it I gasped. “ Who betrayed her V* 

“ She went of her own accord.” 

“ Impossible, Lawrence ! She could not be so frantic !” ex- 
claimed I, vehemently grasping his arm, as if to force him to 
unsay those hateful words. 

“ She did,” persisted he, in the same grave, collected manner 
as before — ” and not without reason,” he continued, gently dis- 
engaging himself from my grasp : “ Mr. Huntingdon is ill.” 

‘‘ And ^ she went to nurse him I” 

“Yes.” 

“ Fool !” I could not help exclaiming — and Lawence looked 
up with a rather reproachful glance. “ Is he dying then V* 

“ I think n(S, Markham.” 

“ And how many more nurses has he ] — how many ladies 
are there besides, to take care of him ]” 

“ None : he was alone, or she would not have gone.” 

“ Oh, confound it ! this is intolerable !” 

“ What is 'I that he should be alone 

I attempted no reply, for I was not sure that this circum- 
stance did not partly conduce to my distraction. I therefore 
continued to pace the walk in silent anguish, with my hand 


3(50 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


pressed to my forehead ; then suddenly pausing and turning to 
my companion, I impatiently exclaimed — 

“ Why did she take this infatuated step 1 What fiend per- 
suaded her to it 

“ Nothing persuaded her but her own sense of duty.” 

“ Humbug !” 

“ I was half inclined to say so myself, Markham, at first- I 
assure you it was not by my advice that she went, for I detest 
that man as fervently as you can do— --except, indeed, that his 
reformation would give me much greater pleasure than his 
death : but all I did was to inform her of the circumstance of 
his illness (the consequence of a fall from his horse in hunting), 
and to tell her that that unhappy person. Miss Myers, had left 
him some time ago.” 

“ It w^is ill done ! Now, when he finds the convenience of 
her presence, he will make all manner of lying speeches and 
false, fair promises for the future, and she will believe him, and 
then her condition will be ten times worse and ten times more 
irremediable than before.” 

“ There does not appear to be much ground for such appre- 
hensions at present,” said he, producing a letter from his pock- 
et : “ from the- account I received this morning, I should say — ” 

It was her writing ! By an irresistible impulse, I held out 
my hand, and the words — “ Let me see it,” involuntarily pass- 
ed my lips. He was evidently reluctant to grant the request, 
but while he hesitated, I snatched it from his hand. Recollect- 
ing myself, however, the minute after, I offered to restore it. 

“ Here, take it,” said I, “ if you don’t want me to read it.” 

“ No,” replied he, “you may read it, if you like.”^ 

I read it, and so may you. ^ 

Grassdale, Nov. 4th 


Dear Frederic, 


I know you will be anxious to hear from me : and I will tell 
you all Lean. Mr. Huntingdon is very ill, but not dying, or in 
any immediate danger; and he is rather better at present than 
he was when I came. I found the house in sad confusion : 
Mrs. Greaves, Benson, every decent servant had left, and those 
/hat were come to supply their places were a negligent, disor- 
derly set, to say no worse — I must change them again if I stay. 
A professional nurse, a grim, hard old woman, had been hired 
to attend the wretched invalid. He suffers much, and has no 
fortitude to bear him through. The immediate injuries he sus- 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


361 


tained from the accident, however, were not very severe, and 
would, as the docter says, have been but trifling to a man of 
temperate habits; but with himy it is very different. On the 
night of my arrival, when I first entered his room, he was lying 
in a kind of half delirium. He did not notice me till I spoke ; 
and then, he mistook me for another. 

“ Is it you, Alice, come again he murmured. “ What did 
you leave me for 

“ It is I, Arthur — it is Helen, your wife,” I replied. 

“ My wife !” said he, with a start. “ For Heaven’s sake, don’t 
mention her ! — I have none. Devil take her,” he cried, a mo- 
ment after, “ and you too ! What did you do it for I” 

I said no more ; but obseiwing that he kept gazing toward 
the foot of the bed, I went and sat there, placing the light so 
as to shine full upon me; for I thought he might be dying, and 
I wanted him to know me. For a long time, he lay silently 
looking upon me, first with a vacant stare, then with a fixed 
gaze of strange, growing intensity. At last he startled me by 
suddenly raising himself on his elbow and demanding in a hor- 
rified whisper, with his eyes still fixed upon me — “ Who is it "I” 

“ It is Helen Huntingdon,” said I, quietly rising at the same 
time, and removing to a less conspicuous position. 

“ I must be going mad,” cried he, “ or something — delirious 
perhaps — but leave me, whoever you are — I can’t bear that 
white face, and those eyes — for God’s sake go, and send me 
somebody else, that doesn’t look like that !” 

I went, at once, and sent the hired nurse. But next moraing 
I ventured to enter his chamber again ; and, taking the nurse’s 
place by his bed-side, I watched him and waited on him for 
several hours, showing myself as little as possible, and only 
speaking when necessary, and then not above my breath. At 
first he addressed me as the nurse, but, on my crossing the room 
to draw up the window-blinds, in obedience to his directions, 
he said — 

“No, it isn’t nurse; it’s Alice. Stay with me do! that old 
hag will be the death of me.” 

“ I mean to stay with you,” said I. And after that, he 
would call me Alice — or some other name almost equally re- 
pugnant to my feelings. I forced myself to endure it for a 
while, fearing a contradiction might disturb him too much : but 
when, having asked for a glass of water, while I held it to his 
lips, he murmured “ Thanks, dearest 1” I could not help dis- 


362 


THE TENANT OF WILUFELL HALL. 


tinctly observing — “ You would not say so if you knew me,’* 
intending to follow that up with another declaration of my 
identity; but he merely muttered an incoherent reply, so I drop- 
ped it again, till some time after, when, as I was bathing his 
forehead and temples with vinegar and water to relieve the 
heat and pain in his head, he observed, after looking earnestly 
upon me for some minutes — 

“ I have such strange fancies — I can’t get rid of them, and 
they won’t let me rest; and the most singular and pertina- 
cious of them all is your face and voice ; they seem just like 
hers. I could swear at this moment, that she was by my side.” 

“ She is,” said I. 

“ That seems comfortable,” continued he, without noticing 
my words;' “ and while you do it, the other fancies fade away 
— but this only strengthens. Go on — go on, till it vanishes too. 
I can’t stand siich a mania as this ; it would kill me !” 

“ It never will vanish,” said I distinctly, “ for it is the truth.” 

“ The truth !” he cried, starting as if an asp had stung him. 
“ You don’t mean to say that you are really she !” 

“I do ; but you needn’t shrink away from me, as if I were 
your greatest enemy : I am come to take care of you, and do 
what none of them would do.” 

“For God’s sake, don’t torment me now!” cried he in pit- 
iable agitation ; and then he began to mutter bitter curses 
against me, or the evil fortune that had brought me there; 
while I put down the sponge and basin, and resumed my seat 
at the bed-side. 

“ Where are they ?” said he, “ have they all left me — ser- 
vants and alH” 

“ There are servants within call, if you want them ; but you 
had better lie down now and be quiet : none of them could or 
would attend you as carefully as I shall do.” 

I can’t understand it at all,” said he, in bewildered per- 
plexity. “ Was it a dream that ” and he covered his eyes 

with his hand, as if trying to unravel the mystery. 

“ No, Arthur, it was not a dream, that your conduct was 
such as to oblige me to leave you ; but I heard that you were 
ill and alone, and I am come back to nurse you. You need 
not fear to trust me : tell me all your wants, and I will try to 
satisfy them. There is no one else to care for you ; and I shall 
not upbraid you now.” 

“Oh! I see,” said he, with a bitter smile, “it’s an act of 


THE TENANT OP WILDFELL HALL. 


363 


Christian charity, whereby you hope to gain a higher seat in 
Heaven for yourself, and scoop a deeper pit in hell for me.” 

“ No ; I came to offer you that comfort and assistance your 
situation required ; and if I could benefit your soul as well as 
your body, and awaken some sense of contrition, and ” 

“ Oh, yes ; if you could overwhelm me with remorse and con- 
fusion of face, now’s the time. What have you done with my 
son 

“ He is well, and you may see him some time, if you will 
compose yourself, but not now.” 

“ Where is he 

“He is safe.” 

“ Is he here 

“ Wherever he is, you will not see him till you have promised 
to leave him entirely under my care and protection, and to let 
me take him away whenever and wherever I please, if I should 
hereafter judge it necessary to remove him again. But we will 
talk of that to-morrow : you must be quiet now.” 

“ No, let me see him now. I promise, if it must be so.” 

“ No—” 

“ I swear it, as God is in Heaven ! Now then, let me see 
him.” 

“ But I can not trust your oaths and promises : I must have a 
written agreement, and you must sign it in the presence of a 
witness — but not to-day — to-morrow.” 

“ No, to-day — now,” persisted he : and he was in such a state 
of feverish excitement, and so bent upon the immediate gratifi- 
cation of his wish, that I thought it better to grant it at once, as 
I saw he would not rest till I did. But I was determined my 
son’s interest should not be forgotten ; and having clearly writ- 
ten out the promise I wished Mr. Huntingdon to give, upon a 
slip of paper, I deliberately read it over to him, and made him 
sign it in the joresence of Rachel. He begged I would not in- 
sist upon this : it was a useless exposure of my want of faith in 
his word, to the servant. I told him I was sorry, but since he 
had forfeited my confidence, he must take the consequence. He 
next pleaded inability to hold the pen. “ Then we must wait 
until you can hold it,” said I. Upon which, he said he would 
try ; but then he could not see to write. I placed my finger 
where the signature was to be, and told him he might write his 
name in the dark, if he only knew where to put it. But he had 
not power to form the letters. “ In that case you must be too 


364 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL BALL. 


ill to see the child,’’ said I;' and finding me inexorable, he at 
length managed to ratify the agreement; and I bade Rachel 
send the boy. 

All this may strike you as harsh, but I felt I must not lose my 
jDresent advantage, and my son’s future welfare should not be 
sacrificed to uny mistaken tenderness for this man’s feelings. 
Little Arthur had not forgotten his father ; but thirteen months 
of absence, during which he had seldom been permitted to 
hear a word about him, or hardly to whisper his name, had ren- 
dered him somewhat shy ; and when he was ushered into the 
darkened room where the sick man lay, so altered from his 
former self, with fiercely flushed face and wildly gleaming eyes, 
he instinctively clung to me, and stood looking on his father 
with a countenance expressive of far more awe than pleasure. 

“ Come here, Arthur,” said the latter, extending his hand to- 
ward him. The child went, and timidly touched th^t burning 
hand, but almost started in alarm, when his father suddenly 
clutched his arm and drew him nearer to his side. 

“ Do you know me V’ asked Mr. Huntingdon, intently perus- 
ing his features. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Who am I ?” 

“ Papa.” 

“ Are you glad to see me 1” 

“ Yes.” 

” You’re not !” replied the disappointed parent, relaxing his 
hold, and darting a vindictive glance at me. 

Arthur, thus released, crept back to me and put his hand in 
mine. His father swore I had made the child hate him, and 
abused and cursed me bitterly. The instant he. began I sent 
our son out of the room; and when he paused to breathe, I 
calmly assured him that he was entirely mistaken ; I had never 
once attempted to prejudice his child against him. 

“ I did indeed desire him to forget you,” I said, “ and espe- 
cially to forget the lessons you taught him ; and for that cause, 
and to lessen the danger of discovery, I own I have generally 
discouraged his inclination to talk about you ; but no one can 
blame me for that, I think.” 

The invalid only replied by groaning aloud and rolling his 
head on the pillow in a paroxysm of impatience. 

“I am in hell, already!” cried he. “ This cursed thirst is 
burning my heart to ashes ! Will nobody — ” 


Tin: TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


865 


Before he could finish the sentence, I had poured out a glass 
of some acidulated, cooling drink that was on the table, and 
brought it to him. He drank it greedily, but muttered, as I took 
away the glass — 

“ I suppose you’re heaping coals of fire on my head, you 
think.” 

Not noticing this speech I asked if there was any thing else 
I could do for him. 

“Yes; I’ll give you another opportunity of showing your 
Christian magnanimity,” sneered he ; “ set my pillow straight — 
and these confounded bed-clothes.” I did so. “ There — now, 
get me another glass of that slop.” I complied. “ This is de- 
lightful ! isn’t it said he, with a malicious grin, as I held it to 
his lips — “ you never hoped for such a glorious opportunity 

“ Now, shall I stay with you 1” said I, as I replaced the glass 
on the table — “ or will you be more quiet if I go and send the 
nurse 1” 

“ Oh, yes, you’re wondrous gentle and obliging ! But you’ve 
driven me mad with it all!” responded he, with an impatient 
toss. 

“ I’ll leave you then,” said I ; and I withdrew, and did not 
trouble him with my presence again that day, except for a 
minute or two at a time, just to see how he was and what he 
wanted. 

Next morning, the doctor ordered him to be bled ; and after 
that, he was more subdued and tranquil. I passed half the day 
in his room at different intervals. My presence did not appear 
to agitato or irritate him as before, and he accepted my services 
quietly, without any bitter remarks — indeed he scarcely spoke 
at all, except to make known his wants, and hardly then. But 
on the morrow — that is, to-day — in proportion as he recovered 
from the state of exhaustion and stupefaction — his ill nature ap- 
peared to revive. 

“ Oh, this sweet revenge !” cried he, when I had been doing 
all I could to make him comfortable and to remedy the careless- 
ness of his nurse. “ And you can enjoy it with such a quiet 
conscience too, because it’s all in the way of duty.” 

“ It is well for me that I am doing my duty,” said I, with a 
bitterness I could not repress, “for it is the only comfort I 
have ; and the satisfaction of my own conscience, it seems, is 
the only reward I need look for 1” 

He looked rather surprised at tho earnestness of my manner. 


366 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELIv HALL. 


“ What reward did you look for he asked. 

“You will think me a liar if I tell you — but I did hope to 
benefit you ; as well to better your mind as to alleviate your 
present sufferings ; but it appears I am to do neither — your 
own bad spirit will not let me. As far as you are concerned, I 
have sacrificed my own feelings, and all the little earthly comfort 
that was left me to no purpose ; and every little thing I do for 
you is ascribed to self-righteous malice and refined revenge !” 

“ It’s all very fine, I dare say,” said he, eyeing me with stupid 
amazement ; “ and of course I ought to be melted to tears of 
penitence and admiration at the sight of so much generosity 
and superhuman goodness; but you see I can’t manage it. 
However, pray do me all the good you can, if you do really 
find any pleasure in it ; for you perceive I am almost as miser- 
able just now as you need wish to see me. Since you came, I 
confess, I have had better attendance than before, for these 
wretches neglected me shamefully, and all my old friends seem 
to have fairly forsaken me. I’ve had a dreadful time of it, I 
assure you : I sometimes thought I should have died — do you 
think there’s any chance?” 

‘ There’s always a chance of death ; and it is always well to 
live with such a chance in view.” 

“ Yes, yes — but do you think there’s any likelihood that this 
illness will have a fatal termination ?” 

“ I can not tell ; but, supposing it should, how are you pre- 
pared to meet the event ?” 

“ Why, the doctor told me I wasn’t to think about it, for I 
was sure to get better, if I stuck to his regimen and prescrip- 
tions.” 

“ I hope you may, Arthur, but neither the doctor nor I can 
speak with certainty in such a case : there is internal injury, 
and it is difficult to know to what extent.” 

“ There now ! you want to scare me to death.” 

“ No ; but I don’t want to lull you to false security. If a 
consciousness of the uncertainty of life can dispose you to 
serious and useful thoughts, I would not deprive you of the 
benefit of such reflections, whether you do eventually recover 
or not. Does the idea of death appall you very, much ?” 

“ It’s just the only thing I can’t bear to think of; so if you’ve 
any — ” 

“ But it must come sometime,” interrupted I ; “ and if it be 
years hence, it will as certainly overtake you as if it came 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


307 


to-day, and, no doubt, be as unwelcome then as now, unless 
you — ” 

“ Oh, hang it ! don’t torment me with your preachments now, 
unless you want to kill me outright — I can’t stand it, I tell you 
— I’ve sufferings enough without that. If you think there’s 
danger, save me from it; and then, in gratitude. I’ll hear 
whatever you like to say.” 

I accordingly dropped the unwelcome topic. And now, 
Frederic, I think I may bring my letter to a close. From 
these details, you may form your own judgment of the state of 
my patient, and of my own position and future prospects. Let 
me hear from you soon, and I will write again to tell you how 
we get on ; but now that my presence is tolerated — and even 
required in the sick-room, I shall have but little time to spare, 
between my husband and my son — for I must not entirely 
neglect the latter: — it would not do to keep him always with 
Rachel, and I dare not leave him for a moment with any of the 
other servants, or suffer him to be alone, lest he should meet 
them. If his father gets worse, I shall ask Esther Hargrave to 
take charge of him for a time, till I have re-organized the house- 
hold at least; but I greatly prefer keeping him under my own 

I find myself in rather a singular position. I am exerting 
my utmost endeavors to promote the recovery and reformation 
of my husband, and if I succeed what shall I do I My duty, of 
course — but how '? No matter ; I can perform the task that is 
before me now, and God will give me strength to do whatever 
he requires hereafter. Good-by, dear Frederic. 

Helen Huntingdon. 

“ What do you think of it I” said Lawrence, as I silently re- 
folded the letter. 

It seems to me,” returned I, “ that she is casting her pearls 
before swine. May they be satisfied with trampling them under 
their feet, and not turn again and rend her ! But I shall say 
no more against her : I see that she was actuated by the^ best 
and noblest motives in what she has done ; and if the act is not 
a wise one, may Heaven protect her from its consequences 1 
May I keep this letter, Lawrence 1 — you see that she has never 
once mentioned me throughout — or made the most distant al- 
lusion to me ; therefore there can be no impropriety or harm 
in it.” 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


3(W 


“ And, therefor.e, why should you wish to keep it 

“ Were not these characters written by her hand? and 
were not these words conceived in her mind, and many of them 
spoken by her lips ?” 

“Well,” said he. And so I kept it; otherwise, Halford, 
you could never have become so thoroughly acquainted with 
its contents. 

“ And when you write,” said I, “ will you have the goodness 
to ask her if I may be permitted to enlighten my mother and 
sister on her real history and circumstances, just so far as is nec- 
essary to make the neighborhood sensible of the shameful in- 
justice they have done her ? I want no tender messages, but 
just ask her that, and tell her it is the greatest favor she could 
do me ; and tell her — no, nothing more. You see I know the 
address, and I might write to her myself, but I am so virtuous 
as to refrain.” 

“ Well, I’ll do this for you, Markham.” 
w.>t<And as soon as you receive an answer, you’ll let me 
know ?” 

“ If all be well. I’ll come myself and tell you immediately.” 


CHAPTER XLVHI. 

FURTHER INTELLIGENCE. 

Five or six days after this, Mr.- Lawrence paid us the honor 
of a call ; and when he and I were alone together — which I 
contrived as soon as possible, by bringing him out to look at 
my cornstacks — he showed me another letter from his sister. 
This one he was quite willing to submit to my longing gaze : 
he thought, I suppose, it would do me good. The only answer 
it gave to ipy message was this : — 

“ Mr. Markham is at liberty to make such revelations con- 
cerning me as he judges necessary. He will know that I 
should wish but little to be said on the subject. I hope he is 
well ; but tell him he must not think of me.” 

I can give’ you a few extracts from the rest of the letter, for 
I was permitted to keep this also — perhaps as an antidote to 
all pernicious hopes and fancies. 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


369 


He is decidedly better, but very low from the depressing 
effects of his severe illness and the strict regimen he is obliged 
to observe — so opposite to all his previous habits. It is de- 
plorable to see how completely his past life has degenerated 
his once noble constitution, and vitiated the whole system of 
his organization. But the doctor says he may now be consid- 
ered out of danger, if he will only continue to observe the nec- 
essary restrictions. Some stimulating cordials he must have, 
but they should be judiciously diluted and sparingly used ; and 
I find it very difficult to keep him to this. At first, his extreme 
dread of death rendered the task an easy one; but in propor- 
tion as he feels his acute suffering abating, and sees the danger 
receding, the more intractable he becomes. Now also, his ap- 
petite for food is beginning to return ; and here, too, his long 
habits of self-indulgence are greatly against him. I watch and 
restrain him as well as I can, and often get bitterly abused for 
my rigid severity; and sometimes he contrives to elude my 
vigilance, and sometimes acts even in open opposition ^to my 
will. But he is now so completety reconciled to my attend- 
ance in general that he is never satisfied when I am not by his 
side. I am obliged to be a little stiff with him sometimes, or 
he would make a complete slave of me : and I know it would 
be unpardonable weakness to give up all other interests for 
him. I have the servants to overlook, and my little Arthur to 
attend to, and my own health too, all of which would be en- 
tirely neglected were I to satisfy his exorbitant demands. I do 
not generally sit up at nights, for I think the nui-se, who has 
made it her business, is better qualified for such undertakings 
than I am ; but still, an unbroken night’s rest is what I but sel- 
dom enjoy, and never can venture to reckon upon ; for my pa- 
tient makes no scruple of calling me up at any hour when his 
wants or his fancies require my presence. But he is manifestly 
afraid of my displeasure : and if at one time he tries my pa- 
tience by his unreasonable exactions, and fretful complaints 
and reproaches, at another, he depresses me by his abject sub- 
mission and deprecatory self-abasement when he fears he has 
gone too far. But all this I can readily pardon ; I know it is 
chiefly the result of his enfeebled frame and disordered nerves : 
what annoys me the most, is his occasional attempts at affec- 
tionate fondness, that I can neither credit nor retuni ; not that 
I hate him ; his sufferings and my own laborious care have given 
him some claim to my regard — to my affection even, if he 


:no 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


would only be quiet and sincere, and content to let things re- 
main as they are, but the more he tries to conciliate me the 
more I shrink from him and from the future. 

“Helen, what do you mean to do when I get welH” he ask- 
ed this morning. “ Will you run away again 1” 

“ It depends entirely upon your own conduct.” 

“ Oh, I’ll be very good.” 

“ But if I find it necessary to leave you, Arthur, I shall not 
* run away you know I have your own promise that I may go 
whenever I please, and take my son with me.” 

“ Oh, but you shall have no cause.” And then followed a 
variety of professions, which I rather coldly checked. 

“ Will you not forgive me then said he. 

“ Yes ; I have forgiven you ; but I know you can not love 
me as you once did ; and I should be very sorry if you were 
to, for I could not pretend to return it : so let us drop the sub- 
ject, and never recur to it again. By what I have done for 
you, you may judge of what I will do — if it be not incompati- 
ble with the higher duty I owe to my son (higher, because he 
never forfeited his claims, and because I hope to do more good 
to him than I can ever do to you) ; and if you wish me to feel 
kindly toward you, it is deeds not words that must purchase my 
affection and esteem.” 

His sole reply to this was a slight grimace, and a scarcely 
perceptible shrug. Alas, unhappy man ! words with him are 
so much cheaper than deeds ; it was as if I had said, “ Pounds, 
not pence, must buy the article you want.” And then he sigh- 
ed a querulous, self-commiserating sigh, as if in pure regret 
that he, the loved and courted of so many worshipers, should 
De now abandoned to the mercy of a harsh, exacting, cold-heart- 
ed woman like that, and even glad of what kindness she chose 
to bestow. 

“ It’s a pity, isn’t it ?” said I ; and whether I rightly divined 
his musings or not, the observation chimed in with his thoughts, 
for he answered — “ It can’t be helped,” with a rueful smile at 
my penetration. 

I have seen Esther Hargrave twice. She is a charming 
creature, but her blithe spirit is almost broken, and her sweet 
temper almost spoiled, by the still unremitting persecutions of 
her mother, in behalf of her rejected suitor — not violent, but 
wearisome and unremitting like a continual dropping. The 


THE TENANT OF WILOFELL HALL. 


371 


unnatural parent seems determined to make her daughter’s life 
a burden if she will not yield to her desires. 

“ Mamma does all she can,” said she, “ to make me feel my- 
self a burden and incumbrance to the family, and the most un- 
grateful, selfish, and undutiful daughter that ever was born ; 
and Walter, too is as stern, and cold, and haughty as if he hat- 
ed me outright. I believe I should have yielded at once if I 
had known, from the beginning, how much resistance would 
have cost me ; but now, for very obstinacy’s sake, I will stand 
out !” 

“ A bad motive for a good resolve,” I answered. “ But, 
however, I know you have better motives, really for your per- 
severance : and I counsel you to keep them still in view.” 

“ Trust me, I will. I threaten mamma sometimes, that I’ll 
run away, and disgrace the family by earning my own liveli- 
hood, if she torments me any more ; and then that frightens 
her a little. But I will do it in good earnest, if they don’t 
mind.” 

“ Be quiet and patient awhile,” said I, “ and better times 
will come.” 

“ Poor girl ! I wish somebody that was worthy to possess her 
would come and take her away — don’t you Frederic 1” 

If the perusal of this letter filled me with dismay for Helen’s 
future life and mine, there was one great source of consolation : 
it was now in my power to clear her name from every foul as- 
persion. The Millwards and the Wilsons should see with 
their own eyes the bright sun bursting from the cloud — and 
they should be scorched and dazzled by its beams ; and my 
own friends too should see it — they whose suspicions had been 
such gall and wormwood to my soul. To effect this, I had only 
to drop the seed into the ground, and it would soon become a 
stately, branching herb : a few words to my mother and sister, 
I knew, would suffice to spread the news throughout the whole 
neighborhood, without any further exertion on my part. 

Rose was delighted ; and as soon as I had told her all I 
thought proper — which was all I affected to know — she flew 
with alacrity to put on her bonnet and shawl, and hasten to 
carry the glad tidings to the Millwards and Wilsons ; glad ti- 
dings I suspect, to none but herself and Mary Millward — that 
steady, sensible girl, whose sterling worth had been so quickly 
perceived and duly valued by the supposed Mrs. Graham, in 


372 


THE TENANT OF WiLUFELL HALL. 


spite of her plain outside ; and who, on her part had been bet- 
ter able to see and appreciate that lady’s true character and 
qualities than the brightest genius among them. 

As I may never have occasion to mention her again, I may 
as well tell you here, that she was at this time privately engag- 
ed to Richard Wilson — a secret, I believe, to every one but 
their two selves. That worthy student was at Cambridge, 
where his most exemplary conduct and his diligent persever- 
ance in the pursuit of learning carried him safely through, and 
eventually brought him, with hard-earned honors and an untar- 
nished reputation, to the close of his collegiate career. In due 
time, he became Mr. Millward’s first and only curate — for 
that gentleman’s declining years forced him at last to acknowl- 
edge that the duties of his extensive parish were a little too 
much for those vaunted energies which he was wont to boast 
over his younger and less active brethren of the cloth. This 
was what the patient, faithful lovers had privately planned, and 
quietly waited for years ago ; and in due time they were uni- 
ted, to the astonishment of the little world they lived in, that 
had long since declared them both born to single blessedness ; 
affirming it impossible that the pale, retiring bookworm should 
ever summon courage to seek a wife, or be able to obtain one 
if he did, and equally impossible that the plain-looking, plain- 
dealing, unattractive, unconciliating Miss Millward should ever 
find a husband. 

They still continued to live at the vicarage, the lady dividing 
her time between her father, her husband, and their poor par- 
ishioners, and, subsequently, her rising family ; and now that 
the Reverend Michael Millward has been gathered to his 
fathers, full of years and honors, the Reverend Richard Wilson 
has succeeded him to the vicarage of Lindenhope, greatly to 
the satisfaction of its inhabitants, who had so long tried and 
fully proved his merits and those of his excellent and well-loved 
partner. 

If you are interested in the after fate of that lady’s sister, I 
can only tell you — what perhaps you have heard from another 
quarter — that some twelve or thirteen years ago, she relieved 
the happy couple of her presence by marrying a wealthy 

tradesman of L ; and I dont envy him his bargain. I fear 

she leads him a rather uncomfortable life, though, happily, he is 
too dull to perceive the extent of his misfortune. I have little 
enough to do with her myself; we have not met for. many 


THE TENANT OF WILUFELL HALL. 


373 


years ; but, I am well assured, she has not yet forgotten or for- 
given either her former lover or the lady whose superior quali- 
ties first opened his eyes to the folly of his boyish attachment. 

As for Richai'd Wilson’s sister, she having been wholly un- 
able to re-capture Mr. Lawrence or obtain any partner rich 
enough or elegant enough to suit her ideas of what the husband 
of Jane Wilson ought to be, is yet in single blessedness. 
Shortly after the death of her mother, she withdrew the light 
of her presence from Ryecote Farm, finding it impossible any 
longer to endure the rough manners and unsophisticated habits 
of her honest brother Robert and his worthy wife, or the idea 
of being identified with such vulgar people in the eyes of the 

world, and took lodgings in , the county town, where she 

lived, and still lives, I suppose, in a kind of closefisted, cold, 
uncomfortable gentility, doing no good to others, and but little 
to herself ; spending her days in fancy-work and scandal ; re- 
ferring frequently to her “ brother the ■^car” and her “ sister 
the vicar’s lady,” but never to her brother the farmer and her 
sister the farmer’s wife ; seeing as much company as she can 
without too much expens*^ but loving no one and beloved by 
none — a cold-hearted, supercilious, keenly, insidiously sensori- 
ous old maid. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

“ The rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat 
upon that house ; and it fell : and great was the fall of it.” 

Though Mr. Lawrence’s health was now quite re-established, 
my visits to Woodford were as unremitting as ever; though 
often less protracted than before. We seldom talked about 
Mrs. Huntingdon ; but yet we never met without mentioning 
her, for I never sought his company but with the hope of hearing 
something about her, and he never sought mine at all, because 
he saw me often enough without. But I always began to talk 
of other things, and waited first to see if he would introduce 
the subject. If he did not, I would casually ask, Have you 
heard from your sister lately V’ If he said, “ No,” the matter 
was dropped : if he said “ Yes,” I would venture to inquire, 
“ How is she ]” but never “ How is her husband ]” though 1 


374 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


might be burning to know ; because, I had not the hypocrisy 
to profess any anxiety for his recovery, and I had not the face 
to express any desire for a contrary result. Had I any such 
desire % — I fear I must plead guilty : but since you have heard 
my confession, you must hear my justification as well — a few 
of the excuses, at least, wherewith I sought to pacify my own 
accusing conscience : — 

In the first place, you see, his life did harm to others, and evi- 
dently no good to himself ; and though I wished it to terminate, 
I would not have hastened its close, if, by the lifting of a finger, 
I could have done so, or if a spirit had whispered in my ear that 
a single efibrt of the will would be enough ; unless, indeed, I 
had the power to exchange him for some other victim of the 
grave, whose life might be of service to his race, and whose 
death would be lamented by his friends. But was there any 
harm in wishing that, among the many thousands whose souls 
would certainly be required of them before the year was over, 
this wretched mortabmight be one! I thought not; and there- 
fore I wished with all my heart that it might please heaven to 
remove him to a better world, or if fliat might not be, still, to 
take him out of this ; for, if he were unfit to answer the sum- 
mons now, after a warning sickness, and with such an angel by 
his side, it seemed but too certain that he never would be ; that, 
on the contrary, returning health would bring returning lust and 
viliiany, and as he grew more certain of recovery, more accus- 
tomed to her generous goodness, his feelings would become 
more callous, his heart more flinty and impervious to her per- 
suasive arguments ; but God knew best. Meantime, however, 
I could not but be anxious for the result of His decrees; know- 
ing, as I did, that (leaving myself entirely out of the question), 
however Helen might feel interested in her husband’s welfare, 
however she might deplore his fate, still, while he lived, she must 
be miserable. 

A fortnight passed away, and my inquiries were always an- 
swered in the negative. At length a welcome “Yes” drew fi'om 
me the second question. Lawrence divined my anxious thoughts, 
and appreciated my resei*ve. I feared, at first, he w’as going to 
torture me by unsatisfactory replies, and either leave me quite 
in the dark concerning what I wanted to know, or force me to 
drag the information out of him, morsel by morsel, by direct in- 
quiries. “ And serve you right,” you will say ; but he was more 
merciful ; and in a little while, he put his sister’s letter into my 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


375 


hand. I silently read it, and restored it to him without comment 
or remark. This mode of procedure suited him so well, that 
thereafter he always pursued the plan of showing me her letters 
at once, when I inquired after her, if there were any to show : 
it was so much less trouble than to tell me their contents ; and 
I received such confidence so quietly and discreetly, that he was 
never induced to discontinue it. 

But I devoured those precious letters with my eyes, and nev- 
er let them go till their contents were stamped upon my mind ; 
and when I got home, the most important passages were enter- 
ed in my diary among the remarkable events of the day. 

The first of these communications brought intelligence of a 
serious relapse in Mr. Huntingdon’s illness, entirely the result 
of his own infatuation in persisting in the indulgence of his ap- 
petite for stimulating drink. In vain had she remonstrated, in 
vain she had mingled his wine with water : her arguments and 
entreaties were a nuisance ; her interference was an insult so 
intolerable, that, at length, on finding she had covertly diluted 
the pale port that was brought him, he threw the bottle out of 
the window, swearing he would not be cheated like a baby — or- 
dered the butler, on pain of instant dismissal, to bring a bottle 
of the strongest wine in the cellar, and, affirming that he should 
have been well long ago if he had been let to have his own way 
— but she wanted to keep him weak, in order that she might 
have him under her thumb ; but by the Lord Harry, he would 
have no more humbug — seized a glass in one hand, and the 
bottle in the other, and never rested till he had drunk it dry. 
Alarming symptoms were the immediate result of this “ impru- 
dence,” as she mildly termed it — symptoms which had rather 
increased than diminished since ; and this was the cause of her 
delay in writing to her brother. Every former feature of his 
malady had returned with augmented virulence ; the slight ex- 
ternal wound, half healed, had broken out afresh ; internal in- 
flammation had taken place, which might terminate fatally if not 
soon removed. Of course, the wretched sufferer’s temper was 
not improved by this calamity. In fact, I suspect it was well- 
nio-li insupportable, though his kind nurse did not complain; but 
she said she had been obliged, at last, to give her son in charge 
to Esther Hargrave, as her presence was so constantly required 
in the sick room, that she could not possibly attend to him her- 
self; and though the child had begged to be allowed to continue 
with her there, and to help her to nurse his papa, and though 


376 


THE TENANT OF WILUFELL HALL. 


she had no doubt he would have been very good and quiet, she 
could not think of subjecting his young and tender feelings to 
the sight of so much sulfeiing, or of allowing him to witness his 
father’s impatience, or hear the dreadful language he was wont 
to use in his paroxysms of pain or irritation. 

The latter, continued she, most deeply regrets the step that 
has occasioned his relapse — but, as usual, he throws the blame 
upon me. If I had reasoned with him like a rational creature, 
he says, it never would have happened ; but to be treated like a 
baby or a fool was enough to put any man past his patience, and 
drive him to assert his independence even at the sacrifice of his 
his own interest. He forgets how often I had reasoned him 
“ past his patience” before. He appears to be sensible of his 
danger, but nothing can induce him to behold it in the proper 
light. The other night while I was waiting on him, and just as 
I had brought him a draught to assuage his burning thirst, he 
observed, with a return of his former sarcastic bitterness — 

“ Yes, you’re mighty attentive now! I suppose there’s noth- 
ing you wouldn’t do for me now 

“ You know,” said I, a little sui-prised at his manner, “ that 
I am willing to do any thing I can to relieve you.” 

“ Yes, now, my immaculate angel ; but when once you have 
secured your reward, and find yourself safe in heaven, and me 
howling in hell-fire, catch you lifting a finger to seiwe me then ! 
No, you’ll look complacently on, and not so much as dip the tip 
of your finger in water to cool my tongue !” 

“ If so, it will be because of the great "gulf over which I can 
not pass ; and if I could look complacently on in such a case, it 
would be only fi-om the assurance that you were being purified 
from your sins, and fitted to enjoy the happiness I felt. But are 
you determined, Arthur, that I shall not meet you in heaven “I” 

“ Humph ! What should I do there, I should like to know?” 
“ Indeed, I can not tell ; and I fear it is too certain that your 
tastes and feelings must be widely altered before you can have 
any -enjoyment there. But do you prefer sinking, without an 
effort, into the state of torment you picture to yourself!” 

“ Oh, it’s all a fable !” said he, contemptuously. 

“ Are you sure, Arthur ! are you quite sure ! Because, if 
there is any doubt, ,and if you should find yourself mistaken, 
after all, when it is to late to turn — ” 

“ It would be rather awkward, to be sure,” said he ; “ but 
don’t bother me now — I’m not going to die yet. I can’t and 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


377 


won’t,” he added vehemently, as if suddenly struck with the 
appalling aspect of that temble event, “ Helen, you must save 
me!” And he earnestly seized my hand, and looked into my 
face with such imploring eagerness that my heart bled for him, 
and I could not speak for tears. 

The next letter brought intelligence that the malady was fast 
increasing; and the poor sufferer’s hoiTor of death was still 
more distressing than his impatience of bodily pain. All his 
fiaends had not forsaken him, for Mr. Hattersley, hearing of his 
danger, had come to see him from his distant home in the north. 
His wife had accompanied him, as much for the pleasure of 
seeing her dear friend, from whom she had been parted so long, 
as to visit her mother and sister. 

Mrs. Huntingdon expressed herself glad to see Milicent once 
mor’e, and pleased to behold her so happy and well. “ She is 
now at the Grove,” continued the letter, “ but she often calls to 
see me. Mr. Hattersley spends much of his time at Arthur’s 
bed-side. With more good feeling than I gave him credit for, 
he evinces considerable sympathy for his unhappy friend, and 
is far more willing than able to comfort him. Sometimes he 
tries to joke and laugh with him, but that will not do : some- 
times he endeavors to cheer him with talk about old times ; and 
this, at one time, may serve to divert the sufferer fi’om his own 
sad thoughts; at another, it will only plunge him into deeper 
melancholy than before; and then Hattersley is confounded, and 
knows not what to say — unless it be a timid suggestion that the 
clergyman might be sent for. But Arthur will never consent to 
that ; he knows he has rejected the clergyman’s well-meant 
admonitions with scoffing levity at other times, and can not 
dream of turning to him for consolation now. 

Mr. Hattersley sometimes offers his services instead of mine, 
but Arthur wvill not let me go ; that strange whim still in- 
creases, as his strength declines, the fancy to have me always 
by his side. I hardly ever leave him, except to go into the next 
room, where I sometimes snatch an hour or so of sleep when 
he is quiet; but even then, the door is left ajar that he may 
know me to be within call. I am with him now, while I write; 
and I feai' my occujpation annoys him ; though I frequently 
break off to attend to him, and though Mr. Hattersley is also 
by his side. That gentleman came, as he said, to beg a holiday 
for me, that I might have a run in the park, this fine, frosty 


378 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


morning, with Milicent and Esther and little Arthur, whom he 
had driven over to see me. Our poor invalid evidently felt it a 
heartless proposition, and would have felt it still more heartless in 
me to accede to it. I therefore said I would only go and speak 
to them a minute, and then come back. I did but exchange a 
few words with them, just outside the portico — inhaling the 
fresh, bracing air as I stood — and then resisting the earnest and 
eloquent entreaties of all three to stay a little longer, and join 
them in a walk round the garden — I tore myself away and 
returned to my patient. I had not been absent five minutes, 
but he reproached me bitterly for my levity and neglect. His 
friend espoused my cause : 

“Nay, nay, Huntingdon,” said he, “you’re too hard upon 
her — she must have food and sleep, and a mouthful of fresh air 
now and then; or she can’t stand it, I tell you. Look at her, 
man, she’s worn to a shadow already.” 

“ What are her sufferings to mine said the poor invalid. 
“ You don’t grudge me these attentions, do you, Helen?” 

“ No, Arthur, if I could really seiTe you by them. I would 
give my life to save you, if I might.” 

“ Would you indeed ? No !” 

“ Most willingly, I would.” 

“ Ah ! that’s because you think yourself more fit to die !” 

There was a painful pause. He was evidently plunged in 
gloomy reflections, but while I pondered for something to say, 
that might benefit without alarming him, Hattersley, whose 
mind had been pursuing almost the same course, broke silence 
with — 

“ I say, Huntingdon, I would send for a parson, of some sort. 
If you didn’t like the vicar, you know, you could have his 
curate, or somebody else.” 

“No; none of them can benefit me if she can’t,” was the 
answer. And the tears gushed from his eyes as he eamestly 
exclaimed, “ Oh, Helen, if I had listened to you, it never would 
have come to this ! And if I had heard you long ago — oh,'' 
God ! how different it would have been !” 

“Hear me now, then, Arthur?” said I, gently pressing his 
hand. 

“ It’s too late now,” said he, despondently. And after that 
another paroxysm of pain came on ; and then his mind began 
to wander, and we feared his death was approaching ; but an 
opiate was administered, his sufferings began to abate, he grad- 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


379 


ually became more composed, and at length sank into a kind of 
slumber. He has been quieter since ; and now Hattersley has 
left him, expressing a hope that he shall find him better when 
he calls to-morrow. 

“ Perhaps, I may recover,” he replied, “ who knows % this 
may have been the crisis. What do you think, Helen 

Unwilling to depress him, I gave the most cheering answer I 
could, but still recommended him to prepare for the possibility 
of what I inly feared was but too certain. But he was deter- 
mined to hope. Shortly after, he relapsed into a kind of doze — 
but now he gi'oans again. 

There is a change. Suddenly he called me to his side, with 
such a strange, excited manner, that I feared he was delirious 
— but he was not. “ That was the crisis, Helen !” said he de- 
lightedly. “ I had an infernal pain here — it is quite gone now, 
I never was so easy since the fall. Quite gone, by Heaven!” 
and he clasped and kissed my hand in the very fullness of his 
heart; but, finding I did not participate in his joy, he quickly 
flung it from him, and bitterly cursed my coldness and insensi- 
bility. How could I reply"? Kneeling beside him, I took his 
hand and fondly pressed it to my lips — for the first time since 
our separation — and told him, as well as tears would let me 
speak, that it was not that that kept me silent; it was the fear 
that this sudden cessation of pain was not so favorable a symp- 
tom as he supposed. I immediately sent for the doctor. We 
are now anxiously awaiting him : I will tell you what he says. 
There is still the same freedom from pain — the same deadness 
to all sensation where the suffering was most acute. 

My worst fears are realized — mortification has commenced. 
The doctor has told him there is no hope — no words can de- 
scribe his anguish. I can write no more. 

The next was still more distressing in the tenor of its con- 
tents. The sufferer was fast approaching dissolution — dragged 
almost to the verge of that awful chasm be trembled to con- 
template, from which no agony of prayers or tears could save 
him. Nothing could comfort him now ; Hattersley’s rough at- 
tempts at consolation were utterly in vain. The world was 
nothing to him ; life and all its interests, its petty cares and 
transient pleasures, were a cruel mockery. To talk of the past, 
was to torture him with vain remorse ; to refer to the future, 
was to increase his anguish; and yet to be silent, was to leave 


380 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


him a prey to his own regrets and apprehensions. Often he 
dwelt with shuddering minuteness on the fate of his perishing 
clay — the slow, piecemeal dissolution already invading his 
frame ; the shroud, the coffin, the dark, lonely grave, and all 
the horrors of corruption. 

“ If I try,” said his afflicted wife, “to divert him from these 
things — to raise his thoughts to higher themes, it is no better 
‘ Worse and worse !’ he groans. ‘ If there be really life beyond 
the tomb, and judgment after death, how can I face it V I can 
not do him any good ; he will neither be enlightened, nor roused, 
nor comforted by any thing I say ; and yet he clings to me with 
unrelenting pertinacity — with a kind of childish desperation, as 
if I could save him from the fate he dreads. He keeps me night 
and day beside him. He is holding my left hand now, while I 
write ; he has held it thus for hours : sometimes quietly, with 
his pale face upturned to mine : sometimes clutching my arm 
with violence — the big drops starting from his forehead at the 
thoughts of what he sees, or thinks he sees before him. If I 
withdraw my hand for a moment, it distresses him : — 

“ ‘ Stay with me, Helen,” he says ; ‘ let me hold you so : it 
seems as if harm could not reach me while you are here. But 
death ivill come — it is coming now — fast, fast ! — and — oh, if I 
could believe there was nothing after !’ 

“ ‘ Don’t try to believe it, Arthur ; there is joy and glory aftei, 
if you will but try to reach it !’ 

“ ‘ What, for me V he said, with something like a laugh. 
‘ Are we not to be judged according to the deeds done in the 
body % Where’s the use of a probationary existence, if a man 
may spend it as he pleases, just contrary to God’s decrees, and 
then go to heaven with the best — if the vilest sinner may win 
the reward of the holiest saint, by merely saying, I repent V 

“ ‘ But if you sincerely repent — ’ 

“ ‘ I can't repent ; I only fear.’ 

“ ‘ You only regret the past for its consequences to your- 
self r 

“ ‘ Just so — except that I’m sorry to have wronged you, Nell, 
because you’re so good to me.’ 

“ ‘ Think of the goodness of God, and you can not but be 
grieved to have offended Him.’ 

“ ‘ What is God % I can not see Him, or hear Him 1 God 
is only an idea.’ 

“ ‘ God is Infinite Wisdom, and Power, and Goodness — and 


THE TENANT OF VVILDFELL HALL. 


381 


Love ; but if this idea is too vast for your human faculties — if 
your mind loses itself in its overwhelming infinitude, fix it on 
Him who condescended to take our nature upon Him, who was 
raised to heaven even in His glorified human body, in whom the 
fullness of the godhead shines.’ 

“ But he only shook his head, and sighed. Then, in another 
paroxysm of shuddering horror, he tightened his grasp on my 
hand and arm, and, groaning and lamenting, still clung to me 
with that wild, desperate earnestness so harrowing to my soul, 
because I know I can not help him. I did my best to soothe and 
comfort him. 

“ ‘ Death is so terrible !’ he cried ; ‘ I can not bear it ! You 
don’t know, Helen — you can’t imagine what it is, because you 
haven’t it before you ; and when I’m buried, you’ll return to 
your old ways and be as happy as ever, and all the world will 
go on just as busy and merry as if I had never been ; while I 
’ He burst into tears. 

“ ‘You needn’t let that distress you,’ I said ; ‘ we shall all fol- 
low you soon enough.’ 

“ ‘ I wish to God I could take you with me now !’ he exclaimed ; 
‘ you should plead for me.’ 

“ ‘ No man can deliver his brother, nor make agreement unto 
God for him,’ I replied : ‘ it cost more to redeem their souls : it 
cost the blood of an incarnate God, perfect and sinless in Him- 
self, to redeem us from the bondage of the evil one. Let Him 
plead for you.’ 

“ But 1 seem to speak in vain. He does not now, as former- 
ly, laugh these blessed truths to scorn; but still, he can not trust, 
or will not comprehend them. He can not linger long. He 
suffers dreadfully, and so do those that wait upon him ; but I will 
not harass you with further details : I have said enough, I think, 
to convince you that I did well to go to him.” 

Poor, poor Helen ! dreadful, indeed, her trials must have 
been 1 And I could do nothing to lessen them — nay, it almost 
seemed as if I had brought them upon her myself, by my own 
secret desires ; and whether I looked at her husband’s sufterings 
or her own, it seemed almost like a judgment upon myself for 
having cherished such a wish. 

The next day but one, there came another letter. That, too, 
was put into my hands without a remark, and these are its con- 
tents : — 


382 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


• Dec. 5th. 

He is gone at last. I sat beside him all night, with my hand 
fast locked in his, watching the changes of his features, and 
listening to his failing breath. He had been silent a long time, 
and I thought he would never speak again, when he murmured, 
faintly, but distinctly — 

“ Pray for me, Helen !” 

“ I do pray for you — every hour and every minute, Arthur ; 
but you must pray for yourself.” 

His lips moved, but emitted no sound ; then his looks became 
unsettled : and, from the incoherent, half-uttered words that es- 
caped him from time to time, supposing him to be now uncon- 
scious, I gently disengaged my hand from his, intending to steal 
away for a breath of air, for I was almost ready to faint ; but a 
convulsive move of the fingers, and a faintly whispered “ Don’t 
leave me !” immediately recalled me: I took his hand again, and 
held it till he was no more — and then I fainted ; it was not 
gi'ief ; it was exhaustion, that, till then, I had been enabled suc- 
cessfully to combat. Oh, Frederic! none can imagine the mis- 
eries, bodily and mental, of that death bed I How could I en- 
dure to think that that poor, trembling soul was hunded away to 
everlasting torment '1 it would drive me mad ! But, thank God, 
I have hope — not only from a vague dependence on the possi- 
bility that penitence and pardon might have reached him at the 
last, but from the blessed confidence that, through whatever 
purging fires the erring spirit may be doomed to pass — whatever 
fate awaits it, still it is not lost, and God, who hateth nothing 
that He hath made, will bless it in the end 1 

His body will be consigned on Thursday to that dark grave 
he so much dreaded ; but the coffin must be closed as soon as 
possible. If you will attend the funeral come quickly, for I 
need help. Helen Huntingdon. 



CHAPTER. L. 

DOUBTS AND DISAPPOINTMENTS. 


On reading this, I had no reason to disguise my joy and hope 
from Frederic Lawrence, for I had none to be ashamed of 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


383 


I felt no joy but that his sister was at length released from her 
afflictive, overwhelming toil — no hope but that she would in 
time recover from the effects of it, and be suffered to rest in 
peace and quietness, at least, for the remainder of her life. I 
experienced a painful commiseration for her unhappy husband 
(though fully aware that he had brought every particle of his 
sufferings upon himself, and but too well deserved them all), 
and a profound sympathy for her own afflictions, and deep anxi- 
ety for the consequences o^ those harassing cares, those dread- 
ful vigils, that incessant and deleterious confinement beside a 
living corpse — for I was persuaded she had not hinted half the 
suffenngs she had had to endure. 

“ You will go to her, Lawrence!” said I, as I put the letter 
into his hand. 

“ Yes, immediately.” 

“ That’s right ! I’ll leave you, then, to prepare for your 
departure.” 

“ I’ve done that already, while you were reading the letter, 
and before you came ; and the carriage is now coming round to 
the door.” 

Inly approving his promptitude, I bade him good moniing, 
and withdrew. He gave me a searching glance, as we pressed 
each other’s hands at parting; but whatever he sought in ray 
countenance, he saw there nothing but the most becoming grav- 
ity, it might be mingled wdth a little sternness, in momentaiy 
resentment at what I suspected to be passing in his mind. 

Had I forgotten my own prospects, my ardent love, my per- 
tinacious hopes! It seemed like sacrilege to revert to them 
now, but I had not forgotten them. It was, however, with a 
gloomy sense of the darkness of those prospects, the fallacy of 
those hopes, and the vanity of that affection, that I reflected on 
those things, as I remounted my horse and slowly journeyed 
homeward. Mrs. Huntingdon was free now ; it was no longer 
a crime to think of her — but did she ever think of me 2 — not 
— of course it was not to be expected ; but would she, when 
this shock was over ! In all the course of her correspondence 
with her brother (our mutual friend, as she herself had called 
him), she had never mentioned me but once — and that was from 
necessity. This, alone, afforded strong presumption that I was 
already forgotten. Yet this was not the worst : it might have 
been her sense of duty that had kept her silent — slie might be 
only trying to forget. But, in addition to this, I had a gloomy 


384 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


conviction that the awful realities she had seen and felt, hei 
reconciliation with the man she had once loved, his dreadful 
sufferings and death, must eventually efface from her mind all 
traces of her passing love for me. She might recover from 
these horrors so far as to be restored to her former health, her 
tranquillity, her cheerfulness even — but never to those feelings 
which would appear to her, henceforth, as a fleeting fancy, a vain, 
illusive dream ; especially as there was no one to remind her of 
my existence — no means of assuring l»er of my fervent constancy, 
now that we were so far apart, and delicacy forbade me to see 
her or to write to her, for months to come, at least. And how 
could I engage her brother in my behalf] how could I break 
that icy crust of shy resei've ] Perhaps he would disapprove of 
my attachment now, as highly as before; perhaps he would 
think me too poor — too lowly born to match with his sister. 
Yes, there , was another barrier. Doubtless there was a wide 
distinction between the rank and circumstances of Mrs. Hunt- 
ingdon, the lady of Grassdale Manor, and those of Mrs. Graham, 
the artist, the tenant of Wildfell Hall ; and it might be deemed 
presumption in me to offer my hand to the former — by the world, 
by her friends — if not by herself — a penalty I might brave, if I 
were certain she loved me ; but otherwise, how could I ] And 
finally, her deceased husband, with his usual selfishness, might 
have so constructed his will as to place restrictions upon her 
marrying again. So that you see I had reasons enough for de- 
spair if I chose to indulge it. 

Nevertheless, it was with no small degree of impatience that 
I looked forward to Mr. Lawrence’s return from Grassdale — 
impatience that increased in proportion as his absence was pro- 
longed, He staid away some ten or twelve days. All very 
right that he should remain to comfort and help his sister, but 
he might have written to tell me how she was — or, at least, to tell 
me when to expect his return ; for he might have known I was 
suffering tortures of anxiety for her, and uncertainty for my own 
future prospects. And when he did retuim, all he told me about 
her, was that she had been greatly exhausted and worn by her 
unremitting exertions in behalf of that man who had been the 
scourge of her life, and had dragged her with him nearly to the 
portals of the grave — and was still much shaken and depressed 
by his melancholy end and the circumstances attendant upon it; 
but no word in reference to me — no intimation that my name 
had ever grassed her lips, or even been spoken in her presence. 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


385 


To be sure, I asked no questions on the subject; I could not 
bring my mind to do so, believing, as I did, that Lawrence was 
indeed averse to the idea of my union with his sister. 

I saw that he expected to be further questioned concerning 
his visit, and I saw too, with the keen perception of awakened 
jealousy, or alarmed self-esteem — or by whatever name I ought 
to call it — that he rather shrank from that impending scmtiny, 
and was no less pleased than surprised to find it did not come. 
Of course, I was burning with anger, but pride obliged me. to 
suppress my feelings, and preseiwe a smooth face — or, at least, a 
stoic calmness throughout the inteiwiew. It was well it did, for, 
reviewing the matter in my sober judgment, I must say it would 
have been highly improper and absurd to have quarreled with 
him on such an occasion : I must confess, too, that I wronged 
him in my heart ; the truth was, he liked me very well, but he 
was fully aware that a union between Mrs. Huntingdon and 
me would be what the world calls a mesalliance; and it was 
not in his nature to set the world at defiance ; especially in 
such a case as this ; for its dread laugh, or ill opinion, would be 
far more terrible to him directed against his sister tharr himself. 
Had he believed that a union was necessary to the happiness 
of both, or of either, or had he known how fervently I loved 
her, he would have acted differently ; but seeing me so calm 
and cool, he would not for the world disturb my philosophy; and 
though refraining entirely from any active opposition to the 
match, he would yet do nothing to bring it about, and would 
much rather take the part of prudence, in aiding us to over- 
come our mutual predilections, than that of feeling to encourage 
them. “ And he was in the right of it,” you will say. Perhaps 
he was — at any rate, I had no business to feel so bitterly against 
him as I did ; but I could not then regard the matter in such a 
moderate light ; and, after a brief conversation upon indifferent 
topics,' I went away, suffering all the pangs of wounded pride 
and injured friendship, in addition to those resulting from the 
fear that I was indeed forgotten, and the knowledge that she I 
loved was alone and afflicted, suffering from injured health and 
dejected spirits, and I was forbidden to console or assist her — 
forbidden even to assure her of my sympathy — for the transmis- 
sion of any such message through Mr. Lawrance was now com- 
pletely out of the question. 

But what should I do ^ I would wait, and see if she w'ould 
notice me — which of course she would not, unless by some kind 

R 


386 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


message intrusted to her brother, that, in all probability, he would 
not deliver, and then — dreadful thought ! — she would think me 
cooled and changed for not returning it — or perhaps he had 
already given her to understand that I had ceased to think of 
her ! I would wait, however, till the six months after our part- 
ing were fairly passed (which would be about the close of F eb- 
ruaiy), and then I would send her a letter modestly reminding 
her of her former permission to write to her at the close of that 
period, and hoping I might avail myself of it, at least to express 
my heartfelt soitow for her late afflictions, my just apprecia- 
tion of her generous conduct, and my hope that her health was 
now completely re-established, and that she would, some time, 
be permitted to enjoy those blessings of a peaceful, happy life, 
which had been denied her so long, but which none could more 
truly be said to merit than herself — adding a few words of kind 
remembrance to my little friend Arthur, with a hope that he 
had not forgotten me, and, perhaps, a few more in reference to 
by-gone times — to the delightful hours I had passed in her 
society, and my unfading recollection of them, which was the 
salt and solace of my life — and a hope that her recent trouble 
had not entirely banished me from her mind. If she did not 
answer this, of course I should write no more : if she did (as 
surely she would, in some fashion) my future proceedings should 
be regulated by her reply. 

.Ten weeks was long to wait in such a miserable state of un- 
certainty ; but courage ! it must be endured ; and meantime 
I would continue to see Lawrence now and then, though not so 
often as before, and I would still pursue my habitual inquiries 
after his sister — if he had lately heard from her, and how she 
was, but nothing more. 

I did so, and the answers I received were always provokingly 
limited to the letter of the inquiry. She was much as usual ; she 
made no complaints, but the tone of her last letter evinced great 
depression of mind ; she said she was better : and, finally, she 
said she was well, and very busy with her son’s education, 
and with the management of her late husband’s property, and 
the regulation of his affairs. The rascal had never told me how 
that property was disposed of, or whether Mr. Huntingdon had 
died intestate or not; and I would sooner die than ask him, lest 
he should misconstrtie into covetousness my desire to know. 
He never offered to show me his sister’s letters now; and I 
never hinted a wish to see them. February, however, was 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


387 


approaching; December was past, Januaiy, at length, was 
almost over — a few more weeks, and then — certain despair or 
renewal of hope would put an end to this long agony of sus- 
pense. 

But alas ! it was just about that time she was called to sus- 
tain another blow in the death of her uncle — a worthless old 
fellow enough, in himself, I dare say, but he had always shown 
more kindness and affection to her than to any other creaturC; 
and she had always been accustomed to regard him as a parent. 
She was with him v/hen he died, and had assisted her aunt to 
nurse him during the last stage of his illness. Her brother 
went to Staningley to attend the funeral, and told me, upon his 
return, that she was still there, endeavoring to cheer her aunt 
with her presence, and likely to remain some time. This was 
bad news for me, for while she continued there I could not 
write to her, as I did not know the address, and would not ask 
it of him. But week followed week, and every time I inquired 
about her she was still at Staningley. 

“ Where is Staningley 1” I asked at last. 

“ In shire,” was the brief reply : and there was some- 

thing so cold and dry in the manner of it, that I was effectually 
deterred from requesting a more definite account. 

“ When will she return to Grassdale was my next ques- 
tion. 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ Confound it !” I muttered. 

“ Why, Markham ]” asked my companion, with an air of 
innocent surprise. But T did not deign to answer him, save by 
a look of silent, sullen contempt, at which he turned away, and 
contemplated the carpet with a slight smile, half pensive, half 
amused ; but quickly looking up, he began to talk of other sub- 
jects, trying to draw me into a cheerful and friendly conver- 
sation ; but I was too much imtated to discourse with him, and 
soon took leave. 

You see Lawrence and I somehow could not manage to get 
on very well together. The fact is, I believe, we were both of 
us a little too touchy. It is a troublesome thing, Halford, this 
susceptibility to affronts where none are intended. I am no 
martyr to it now, as you can bear me witness : I have learned 
to be merry and wise, to ,be more easy with myself and more 
indulgent to my neighbors, and I can afford to laugh at both 
Lawrence and you. 


388 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


Partly from accident, partly from willful negligence on my 
part (for I was really beginning to dislike him), several weeks 
elapsed before I saw my friend again. When we did meet, it 
was he that sought me out. One bright morning early in June, 
he came into the field where I was just commencing my hay 
harvest. 

“ It is long since I saw you, Markham,” said he, after the first 
few words had passed between us. “ Do you never mean to 
come to Woodford again 

“ I called once, and you were out.” 

“ I was sorry : but that was long since ; I hoped you would 
call again ; and now, 1 have called, and you were out — which 
you generally are, or I would do myself the pleasure of calling 
more frequently — but being determined to see you this time, I 
have left my pony in the lane, and come over hedge and ditch 
to join you; for I am about to leave Woodford for a while, and 
may not have the pleasure of seeing you again for a month or 
two.” 

“ Where are you going 

“To Grassdale first,” said he, with a half-smile he would 
willingly have suppressed if he could. 

“To Grassdale ! Is she there, then ]” 

“ Yes, but in a day or two she will leave it to accompany 

Mrs. Maxwell to F for the benefit of the sea air ; and I 

shall go with them.” (F was at that time a quiet but re- 

spectable watering place ; it is considerably more frequented 
now.) 

Lawrence seemed to expect me to take advantage of this 
circumstance to intrust him with some sort of message to his 
sister; and I believe he would have undertaken to deliver it 
without any material objections, if I had had the sense to ask 
him ; though of course he would not offer to do so, if I was 
content to let it alone. But I could not bring myself to make 
the request ; and it was not till after he was gone, that I saw 
how fair an opportunity I had lost ;— and then, indeed, I deep- 
ly regretted my stupidity and my foolish pride ; but it was now 
too late to remedy the evil. 

He did not return till toward the latter end of August. He 

wrote to me twice or thrice from F ; but his letters were 

most provokingly unsatisfactory, dealing in generalities or in 
^rifles that I cared nothing about, or replete with fancies and 
reflections equally unwelcome to me at the time — saying next 


THE TENANT OF VVILDFELL HALL. 


389 


to nothing about his sister, and little more about himself. I 
could wait, however, till he came back: perhaps I could get 
something more out of him then. At all events, I would not 
write to her now, while she was with him and her aunt, who 
doubtless would be still more hostile to my presumptous aspi- 
rations than himself When she was returned to the silence 
and solitude of her own home it would be my fittest opportu- 
nity. 

When Lawrence came, however, he was as reseiwed as ever 
on the subject of my keen anxiety. He told me that his sister 

had deiived considerable benefit from her stay at F , that 

her son was quite well, and — alas! that both of them were 
gone, with Mrs. Maxwell, back to Staningley ; — and there they 
staid at least three months. But instead of boring you with 
my chagrin, my expectations and disappointments, my fluctua- 
tions of dull despondency and flickering hope, my varying reso- 
lutions, now to drop it, and now to persevere — now to make a 
bold push, and now to let things pass, and patiently abide my 
time — I will employ myself in settling the business of one or 
two of the characters, introduced in the course of this narrative, 
whom I may not have occasion to mention again. 

Sometime before Mr. Huntingdon’s death. Lady Lowborough 
eloped with another gallant to the continent, where, having 
lived awhile in reckless gayety and dissipation, they quarreled 
and parted. She went dashing on for a season, but years came 
and money went : she sunk, at length, in difficulty and debt, 
disgrace and misery; and died at last, as I have heard, in pen- 
ury, neglect, and utter wretchedness. But this might be only a 
report : she may be living yet, for any thing I or any of her 
relatives or former acquaintances can tell ; for they have all lost 
sight of her long years ago, and would as thoroughly forget her 
if they could. Her husband, however, upon this second misde- 
meanor, immediately sought and obtained a divorce, and, not 
long after, married again. It was well he did, for Lord Low- 
borough, morose and moody as he seemed, was not the man 
for a bachelor’s life. No public interests, no ambitious projects, 
or active pursuits — or ties of friendship even (if he had had any 
friends), could compensate to him for the absence of domestic 
comforts and endearments. He had a son and a nominal 
daughter, it is true, but they too painfully reminded him of their 
mother, and the unfortunate little Annabella was a source of 
pei-petual bitterness to his soul. He had obliged himself to 


390 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


treat her with paternal kindness : he had forced himself not to 
hate her, and even, perhaps, to feel some degree of kindly 
regard for her, at last, in return for her artless and unsus- 
pecting attachment to himself ; but the bitterness of his self- 
condemnation for his inward feelings toward that innocent 
being, his constant struggles to subdue the evil promptings of 
his nature (for it was not a generous one), though partly guessed 
at by those who knew him, could be known to God and his 
own heart alone; — so also was the harshness of his • conflicts 
with the temptation to return to the vice of his youth, and seek 
oblivion for past calamities, and deadness to the present misery 
of a blighted heart, a joyless, friendless life, and a morbidly dis- 
consolate mind, by yielding again to that insidious foe to health, 
and sense, and virtue, which had so deplorably enslaved and 
degraded him before. 

The second object of his choice was widely different from 
the first. Some wondered at his taste; some even ridiculed it ; 
but in this their folly was more apparent than his. The lady 
was about his own age — i. e. between thirty and forty — remark- 
able neither for beauty nor wealth, nor brilliant accomplish- 
ments ; nor any other thing that I ever heard of, except genuine 
good sense, unswerving integrity, active piety, warm-heaited 
benevolence, and a fund of cheerful spirits. These qualities, 
however, as you may readily imagine, combined to render her 
an excellent mother to the children, and an invaluable wife to 
his lordship. He, with his usual self-depreciation (or apprecia- 
tion?) thought her a world too good for him, and while he won- 
dered at the kindness of Providence in conferring such a gift 
upon him, and even at her taste in preferring him to other men, 
he did his best to reciprocate the good she did him, and so far 
succeeded that she was, and I believe still is, one of the happiest 
and fondest wives in England ; and all who question the good 
taste of either partner, may be thankful if their respective selec- 
tions afford them half the genuine satisfaction in the end, or re- 
pay their preference with affection half as lasting and sincere. 

If you are at all interested in the fate of that low scoundrel, 
Grimsby, I can only tell you that he went from bad to worse, 
sinking from bathos to bathos of vice and villainy, consorting 
only with the worst members of his club and the lowest dregs 
of society — happily for the rest of the world — and at last met 
his end in a drunken brawl fi’om the hands, it is said, of some 
brother scoundrel he had cheated at play. 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


391 


As for Mr. Hattersley, he had never wholly forgotten his 
resolution to “ come out from among them,” and behave like a 
man and a Christian, and the last illness and death of his once 
jolly friend Huntingdon, so deeply and seriously impressed him 
with the evil of their former practices, that he never needed 
another lesson of the kind. Avoiding the temptations of the 
town, he continued to pass his life in the country, immersed in 
the usual pursuits of a hearty, active country gentleman; his 
occupations being those of farming and breeding horses and 
cattle, diversified with a little hunting and shooting, and enliv- 
ened by the occasional companionship of his friends (better 
friends than those of his youth), and the society of his happy lit- 
tle wife (now cheerful and confiding as heart could wish), and 
his fine family of stalwart sons and blooming daughters. His 
father, the banker, having died some years ago, and left him all 
his riches, he has now full scope for the exercise of his prevail- 
ing tastes, and I need not tell you that Ralph Hattersley, Esq., 
is celebrated throughout the country for his noble breed of 
horses. 


CHAPTER LI. 

AN UNEXPECTED OCCURRENCE. 

We will now turn to a certain still, cold, cloudy afternoon 
about the commencement of December, when the first fall of 
snow lay thinly scattered over the blighted fields and frozen 
roads, or stored more thickly in the hollows of the deep cart 
ruts and footsteps of men and horses, impressed in the now 
petrified mire of last month’s drenching rains. I remember it 
well, for I was walking home from the vicarage, with no less 
remarkable a personage than Miss Eliza Millward by my side. 
I had been to call upon her father — a sacrifice to civility under- 
taken entirely to please my mother, not myself, for I hated to 
go near the house ; not merely on account of my antipathy to 
the once so bewitching Eliza, but because I had not half for- 
given the old gentleman himself for his ill opinion of Mrs. Hunt- 
ingdon ; for though now constrained to acknowledge himself 
mistaken in his former judgment, he still maintained that she 


392 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


had done wrong to leave her husband ; it was a violation of her 
sacred duties as a wife, and a tempting of Providence by laying 
herself open to temptation ; and nothing short of bodily ill-usage 
(and that of no trifling nature) could excuse such a step — nor 
even that, for in such a case she ought to appeal to the laws for 
protection. But it was not of him I intended to speak ; it was 
of his daughter Eliza. Just as I was taking leave of the vicar, 
she entered the room, ready equipped for a walk. 

“I was just coming to see your sister, Mr. Markham,” said 
she ; “ and so, if you have no objection. I’ll accompany you 
home. I like company when I’m walking out — don’t you 

“ Yes, when it’s agi*eeable.” 

“ That of course,” rejoined the young lady, smiling archly. 
So we proceeded together. 

“ Shall I find Rose at home, do you think said she, as we 
closed the garden gate, and set our faces toward Linden-car. 

“ I believe so.” 

“ I trust I shall, for I’ve a little bit of news for her — if you 
haven’t forestalled me.” 

“ I 

“ Yes : do you know what Mr. Lawrence is gone fori” She 
looked up anxiously for my reply. 

“ Is he gone 1” said I, and her face brightened. . 

“ Ah ! then he hasn’t told you about his sister 1” 

“ What of her I demanded, in teiTor lest some evil should 
have befallen her. 

“ Oh, Mr. Markham, how you blush !” cried she, with a tor- 
menting laugh. “Ha, ha, you have not forgotten her yet! But 
you had better be quick about it, I can tell you, for — alas, alas ! 
— she’s going to be married next Thursday 1” 

“ No, Miss Eliza 1 that’s false.” 

“ Do you charge me with a falsehood, sirl” 

“You are misinformed.” 

“ Am 1 1 Do you know better then 1” 

“ I think I do. 

“ What makes you look so pale then 1” said she, smiling with 
delight at my emotion. “ Is it anger at poor me for telling such 
a fib 1 Well, I only ‘ tell the tale as ’twas told to me ;’ I don’t 
vouch for the truth of it, but at the same time I don’t see what 
reason Sarah should have for deceiving me, or her informant for 
deceiving her; and that was what she told me the footman told 
her — that Mrs. Huntingdon was going to be married on Thurs- 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


393 


day, and Mr. Lawrence was gone to the wedding. She did 
tell me the name of the gentleman, but IVe forgotten that. 
Perhaps you can assist me to remember it. Is there not some 
one that lives near, or frequently visits the neighborhood, that 
has long been attached to her 1 a Mr. — oh, dear ! — Mr. — ” 

“ Hargrave V’ suggested I, with a bitter smile. 

“ You’re right,” cried she ; “ that was the very name.” 

“ Impossible, Miss Eliza!” I exclaimed, in a tone that made 
her start. 

“Well, you know, that’s what they told me,” said she, com- 
posedly staring me in the face. And then she broke out into a 
long shrill laugh, that put me to my wit’s end with fury. 

“ Really, you must excuse me,” cried she. “ I know it’s 
very rude, but, ha, ha, ha ! — did you think to marry her your- 
self] Dear, dear, what a pity! ha, ha, ha! — Gracious, Mr. 
Markham ! are you going to faint ] O mercy ! shall I call this 
man ] Here, Jacob — ” But checking the word on her lips, I 
seized her arm, and gave it, I think, a pretty severe squeeze, for 
she shrank into herself with a faint cry of pain or ten'or ; but 
the spirit within her was not subdued : instantly rallying, she 
continued, with well-feigned concern — 

“ What can I do for you ] Will you have some water ] — 
some brandy ] — I dare say they have some in the public-house 
down there, if you’ll let me run.” 

“ Have done with this nonsense !” cried I, sternly. She 
looked confounded, almost frightened, again, for a moment. 
“ You know I hate such jests,” I continued. 

Jests, indeed! I wdiSn't jesting 

“ You were laughing, at all events, and I don’t like to be 
laughed at,” returned I, making violent efforts to speak with 
proper dignity and composure, and to say nothing but what was 
coherent and sensible. “And since you are in such a merry 
mood. Miss Eliza, you must be good enough company for your- 
self : and therefore I shall leave you to finish your walk alone ; 
for, now I think of it, I have business elsewhere; so good 
evening.” 

With that I left her (smothering her malicious laughter), and 
turned aside into the fields, springing up the bank, and pushing 
through the nearest gap in the hedge. Determined at once to 
prove the truth, or rather the falsehood, of her stoiy, I hastened 
to Woodford as fast as my legs could cany me, first veering 
round by a circuitous course, but the moment I was out of 


394 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


sight of my fair tormentor, cutting away across the country, 
just as a bird might fly — over pasture-land and fallow, and 
stubble and lane, clearing hedges, and ditches, and hurdles — 
till I came to the young squire’s gates. Never till now had I 
known the full fervor of my love, the full strength of my hopes 
— not wholly crushed even in my hours of deepest despondency, 
always tenaciously clinging to the thought that one day she 
might be mine — or if not that, at least that something of my 
memory, some slight remembrance of our friendship and our 
love would be forever cherished in her heart. I marched up 
to the door, determined, if I saw the master, to question him 
boldly concerning his sister, to wait and hesitate no longer, but 
cast false delicacy and stupid pride behind my back, and know 
my fate at once. 

“ Is Mr. Lawrence at home V’ I eagerly asked of the servant 
that opened the door. 

“ No, sir, master went yesterday,” replied he, looking very 
alert. 

“ Went where 

“To Grassdale, sir — wasn’t you aware, sir ? He’s very close, 
is master,” said the fellow, with a foolish, simpering grin. “ I 
suppose, sir — ” , 

But I turned and left him, without waiting to hear what he 
supposed. I was not going to stand there, to expose my tor- 
tured feelings to the insolent laughter and impertinent curiosity 
of a fellow like that. 

But what was to be done now 'I Could it be possible that she 
had left me for that man % I could not believe it. Me she 
might forsake, but not to give herself to him ! Well, I would 
know the truth. To no concerns of daily life could I attend, 
while this tempest of doubt and dread of jealousy and rage dis- 
ti’acted me. I would take the moraing coach from L — (the 
evening one would be already gone), and fly to Grassdale. I 
must be there before the marriage. And why] Because a 
thought struck me, that fcrhaps I might prevent it — that if I 
did not, she and I might both lament it to the latest moment of 
our lives. It struck me that some one might have belied me to 
her. Perhaps her brother — yes, no doubt her brother had per- 
suaded her that I was false and faithless, and taking advantage 
of her natural indignation, and perhaps her desponding careless- 
ness about her future life, had urged her artfully, cruelly on, 
to this other maiTiage, in order to secure her from me. If this 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 395 


was the case, and if she should only discover her mistake when 
too late to repair it, to what a life of misery and vain regret 
might she be doomed as well as I ! and what remorse for me, 
to think my foolish scruples had induced it all ! Oh, I must see 
her ! She must know my truth, even if I told it at the church 
door. I might pass for a madman or an impertinent fool ; even 
she might be offended at such an interruption, or at least might 
tell me it was now too late — but if I could save her ! if she 
might be mine ! — it was too rapturous a thought ! 

Winged by this hope, and goaded by these fears, I hurried 
homeward, to prepare for my departure on the mon’ow. I 
told my mother that urgent business, which admitted no delay, 

but which I could not then explain, called me away to (the 

last large town through which I had to pass). My deep anxiety 
and serious preoccupation, could not be concealed from her 
maternal eyes ; and I had much ado to calm her apprehensions* 
of some disasti’ous mystery. 

That night there came a heavy fall of snow, which so re- 
tarded the progress of the coaches on the following day, that I 
was almost driven to distraction. I traveled all night, of course, 
for this was Wednesday : to-morrow morning, doubtless, the 
marriage would take place. But the night was long and dark ; 
the snow heavily clogged the wheels, and balled the horses’ 
feet; the animals were consumedly lazy, the coachmen most 
execrably cautious, the passengers confoundedly apathetic in 
their supine indifference to the rate of our progression. Instead 
of assisting me to bully the several coachmen and urge them 
forward, they merely stared and grinned at my impatience. 
One fellow even ventured to rally me upon it — ^but I silenced 
him with a look that quelled him for the rest of the journey; 
and when, at the last stage, I would have taken the reins into 
my own hand, they all with one accord opposed it. 

It was broad daylight when we entered M — , and drew up 
at the Rose and Crown. I alighted and called aloud for a post- 
chaise to Grassdale. There was none to be had ; the only one in 
tho town was under repair. “ A gig then — a fly — car — any 
thing — only be quick !” There was a gig but not a horse to 
spare. I sent into the town to seek one ; but they were such 
an intolerable time about it that I could wait no longer: — 
I thought my own feet could carry me sooner; and bidding 
them send the confounded convey^ince after me, if it were 
ready within an hour, I set off as fast as I could walk. The 


396 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


distance was little more than six miles, but the road was 
strange, and I had to keep stopping to inquire my way— -halloo- 
irrg to carters and clod-hoppers, and frequently invading the 
cottages, for there were few abroad that winter’s morning — 
sometimes knocking up the lazy people from their beds, for 
where so little work was to be done — perhaps so little food and 
fire to be had, they cared not to curtail their slumbers. I had 
no time to think of them, however; aching with weariness and 
desperation, I hurried on. The gig did not overtake me ; it 
was well I had not waited for it — vexatious, rather, that I had 
been fool enough to wait so long. 

At length, however, I entered the neighborhood of Grassdale. 
I approached the little rural church — but lo ! there stood such a 
train of carriages before it — it needed not the white favors 
bedecking the servants aud horses, nor the merry voices of the 
village idlers assembled to witness the show, to apprize me that 
there was a wedding within. I ran in among them, demanding 
with breathless eagerness, had the ceremony long commenced. 
They only gaped and stared. In ray desperation I pushed past 
them, and was about to enter the churchyard gate, when a 
group of ragged urchins, that had been hanging like bees to 
the windows, suddenly dropped off and made a rush for the 
porch, vociferating in the uncouth dialect of their country, 
something which signified, “ It’s over — they’re coming out !” 

If Eliza Millward had seen me then, she might indeed 
have been delighted. I grasped the gate-post for support, and 
stood intently gazing toward the door to take my last look on 
my soul’s delight, my first on that detested mortal who had torn 
her from my heart, and doomed her, I was certain, to a life of 
misery and hollow, vain repining — for what happiness could she 
enjoy with him? I did not wish to shock her with my presence 
now, but I had not power to move away. Forth came the 
bride and bridegroom. Him I saw not ; I had eyes for none 
but her. A long vail shrouded half her graceful form, but did 
not hide it ; I could see that while she earned her head erect, 
her eyes were bent upon the ground, and her face and neck 
were suffused with a crimson blush ; but every feature was 
radiant with smiles, and, gleaming through the misty whiteness of 
her vail, were clusters of golden ringlets ! O Heavens ! it was 
not my Helen ! The first glimpse made me start — but my eyes 
were darkened with exhaustion and despair, dare I trust them 1 
Yes — it is not she ! It was a younger, slighter, rosier beauty — 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


397 


lovely, indeed, but with far less dignity and depth of soul — 
without that indefinable grace, that keenly spirited yet g-entle 
charm, that ineffable power to attract and subjugate the heart 
— my heart at least. I looked at the bridegroom — it was Fred- 
eric Lawrence ! I wiped away the cold drops that were trick- 
ling down ray forehead, and stepped back as he approached; 
but his eye fell upon me, and he knew me, altered as my 
appearance must have been. 

“ Is that you, Markham said he, startled and confounded 
at the apparition — perhaps, too, at the wildness of my looks. 

“ Yes, Lawrence ; is that you I mustered the presence of 
mind to reply. 

He smiled and colored, as if half-proud and half-ashamed of 
his identity; and if he had reason to be proud of the sweet lady 
on his arm, he had no less cause to be ashamed of having con- 
cealed his good fortune so long. 

“ Allow me to introduce you to my bride,’* said he, endeavor- 
ing to hide his embaiTassment by an assumption of careless 
gayety. “ Esther, this is Mr. Markham, my friend. Markham, 
Mrs. Lawrence, late Miss Hargrave.” 

I bowed to the bride, and vehemently wrung the bridegroom’s 
hand. 

“ Why did you not tell me of this 1” I said reproachfully, 
pretending a resentment I did not feel (for in truth I was almost 
wild with joy to find myself so happily mistaken, and overflow- 
ing with affection to him for this and for the base injustice I 
felt that I had done him in my mind — he might have wronged 
me, but not to that extent; and as I had hated him like a de- 
mon for the last forty hours, the reaction from such a feeling 
was BO great that I could pardon all offenses for the moment — 
and love him in spite of them too). 

“I did tell you,” said he, with an air of guilty confusion, 
“ you received my letter 1” 

“ What letter V 

“ The one announcing my intended marriage.” 

“ I never received the most distant hint of such an intention.” 

“ It must have crossed you on your way, then — it should have 
reached you yesterday morning — it was rather late, I acknowl- 
edge. But what brought you here, then, if you received no 
information V* 

It was now 7ny turn to be confounded ; but the young lady, 
who had been busily patting the snow with her foot during our 


398 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


short, sotto voce colloquy, very opportunely came to ray assist- 
ance, by pinching her companion’s arm and whispering a sug- 
gestion that his friend should be invited to step into the carriage 
and go with them; it being scarcely agreeable to stand there 
among so many gazers, and keeping their friends waiting, into 
the bargain. 

“ And so cold as it is, too !” said he, glancing with dismay at 
her slight drapery, and immediately handing her into the car- 
riage. “Markham, will you come'? We are going to Paris, 
but we can drop you any where between this and Dover.” 

“ No, thank you. Good-by — I needn’t wish you a pleasant 
journey ; but I shall expect a very handsome apology, some 
time, mind, and scores of letters, before we meet again.” 

He shook my hand, and hastened to take his place beside his 
lady. This was no time or place for explanation or discourse : 
we had already stood long enough to excite the wonder of the 
village sight-seers, and perhaps the wrath of the attendant 
bridal party ; though of course, all this passed in a much shorter 
time than I have taken to relate, or even than you will take to 
read it. I stood beside the carriage, and the window being 
down, I saw my happy friend fondly encircle his companion’s 
waist with his arm, while she rested her glowing cheek on his 
shoulder, looking the very impersonation of loving, trusting bliss. 
In the inteiwal between the footman’s closing the door and 
taking his place behind, she raised her smiling brown eyes to 
his face, observing playfully — 

“ I fear you must think me very insensible, Frederic : I 
know it is the custom for ladies to cry on these occasions, but I 
couldn’t squeeze a tear for my life.” 

He only answered with a kiss, and pressed her still closer to 
his bosom. 

“But what is tins'?” he murmured. “Why, Esther, you’re 
crying now!” 

“ Oh, it’s nothing — it’s only too much happiness — and the 
wish,” sobbed she, “ that our dear Helen were as happy as 
ourselves.” 

“ Bless you for that wish 1” I inwardly responded as the car- 
riage rolled away — “ and Heaven grant it be not wholly vain !” 

I thought a cloud had suddenly darkened her husband’s face 
as she spoke. What did he think ? Could he grudge such hap- 
piness to his dear sister and his friend as he now felt himself '? 
At such a moment it was impossible. The contrast between her 


THE TExVANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


399 


fate and his must darken his bliss for a time. Perhaps, too, he 
thought of me : perhaps he regretted the part he had had in 
preventing our union, by omitting to help us, if not by actually 
plotting against us. I exonerated him from that charge, now, 
and deeply lamented my former ungenerous suspicions ; but he 
had wronged us, still — I hoped, I trusted that he had. He had 
not attempted to check the course of our love by actually dam- 
ming up the streams in their passage, but he had passively 
watched the two currents wandering through life’s arid wilder- 
ness, declining to clear away the obstructions that divided them, 
and secretly hoping that both would lose themselves in the sand 
before they could be joined in one. And, meantime, he had been 
quietly proceeding with his own affairs. Perhaps his heart and 
head had been so full of his fair lady that he had had but little 
thought to spare for others. Doubtless he had made his first 
acquaintance with her — his first intimate acquaintance at least 
— during his three months’ sojourn at F — , for I now recollected 
that he had once casually let fall an intimation that his aunt and 
sister had a young friend staying with them at the time, and 
this accounted for at least one-half his silence about all trans- 
actions there. Now, too, I saw a reason for many little things 
that had slightly puzzled me before ; among the rest, for sundry 
departures from Woodford, and absences more or less prolonged, 
for which he never satisfactorily accounted, and concerning which 
he hated to be questioned on his return. Well might the ser- 
vant say his master was “ very close.” But why this strange re- 
serve to me ? Partly, from that remarkable idiosyncrasy to which 
I have before alluded ; partly, perhaps, from tenderness to my 
feelings, or fear to disturb my philosophy by touching upon the 
infectious theme of love. 


CHAPTER LII. 

FLUCTUATIONS. 

The tardy gig had overtaken me at last. I entered it, and 
bade the man who brought it drive to Grassdale Manor — I was 
too busy with my own thoughts to care to drive it myself. I 
would see Mrs. Huntingdon — there could be no impropriety in 


400 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


that, now that her husband had been dead above a year — and by 
her indifference or her joy at my unexpected arrival, I could 
soon tell whether her heart w'as truly mine. But my compan- 
ion, a loquacious, forward fellow, was not disposed to leave me 
to the indulgence of my private cogitations. 

“ There they go,” said he, as the carriages filed away before 
us. “ There’ll be brave doings on yonder to-day ^ as what come 
to-morra. Know any thing of that family, sir] or you’re a 
stranger in these parts ]” 

“ I know them by report.” 

“ Humph ! There’s the best of ’em gone, anyhow. And I 
suppose the old Missis is agoing to leave after this stir’s gotten 
overed, and take herself off, somewhere, to live on her bit of a 
jointure ; and the young ’un — at least the new ’un (she’s none 
so very young) is coming down to live at the Grove.” 

“ Is Mr. Hargrave married, then *?” 

“ Ay, sir, a few months since. He should ’a been wed afore, 
to a widow lady, but they couldn’t agree over the money ; she’d 
a rare long purse, and Mr. Hargrave wanted it all to his-self; 
but she wouldn’t let it go, and so then they fell out. This one 
isn’t quite as rich, nor as handsome, either ; but she hasn’t been 
married before. She’s very plain, they say, and getting on to 
forty, or past ; and so, you know, if she didn’t jump at this hop- 
portunity, she thought she’d never get a better. I guess she 
thought such a handsome young husband was worth all ’at ever 
she had, and he might take it and welcome ; but I’ll lay she’ll 
rue her bargain afore long. They say she begins already to 
see ’at he isn’t not altogether that nice generous, perlite, delight- 
ful gentleman ’at she thought him afore marriage ; he begins a 
being careless and masterful, already. Ay, and she’ll find him 
harder and carelesser nor she thinks on.” 

“ You seem to be well acquainted with him,” I obseiwed. 

“ I am, sir ; I’ve known him since he was quite a young gen- 
tleman ; and a proud ’un he was, and a willful. I was servant 
younder for several years ; but I couldn’t stand their niggardly 
ways — she got ever longer and worse, did Missis, with her nip- 
ping and screwing, and watching and grudging ; so I thought 
I’d find another place as what came.” 

And then he discoursed upon his present position as ostler at 
the Rose and CroWn, and how gi'eatly superior this was to his 
former one, in comfort and freedom, though inferior in outward 
respectability; and entered into various details respecting the 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


401 


domestic economy at the Grove, and the characters of Mrs. 
Hargrave and her son — to which I gave no heed, being too 
much occupied with my own anxious, fluttering anticipations, 
and with the character of the country through which we passed, 
that, in spite of the leafless trees and snowy ground, had for 
some time begun to manifest unequivocal signs of the approach 
to a country gentleman’s seat. 

“ Are we not near the house 1” said I, interrupting him in the 
middle of his discourse. 

“Yes, sir; yond’s the park.” 

My heart sank within me to behold that stately mansion in 
the midst of its expansive grounds — the park, as beautiful now, 
in its wintry garb, as it could be in its summer glory ; the 
majestic sweep, the undulating swell and fall, displayed to full 
advantage in that robe of dazzling purity, stainless and printless 
— save one long, winding track left by the trooping deer; the 
stately timber-trees, with their heavy-laden branches gleaming 
white against the dull, gray sky ; the deep, encircling woods ; 
the broad expanse of water sleeping in frozen quiet ; and the 
weeping ash and willow drooping their snow-clad boughs above 
it — all presented a picture, striking, indeed, and pleasing to an 
unencumbered mind, but by no means encouraging to me. There 
was one comfort, however — all this was entailed upon little 
Arthur, and could not, under any circumstances, strictly speak- 
ing, be his mother’s. But how was she situated ? Overcoming 
with a sudden effort my repugnance to mention her name to my 
garrulous companion, I asked him if he knew whether her late 
husband had left a will, and how the property had been dis- 
posed of Oh, yes ; he knew all about it ; and I was quickly 
informed, that to her had been left the full control and manage- 
ment of the estate during her son’s minority, besides the absolute, 
unconditional possession of her own fortune (but I knew her 
father had not given her much), and the small additional sum 
that had been settled upon her before marriage. 

Before the close of the explanation, we drew up at the park 
gates. Now for the trial — if I should find her within — but 
alas ! she might be still at Staningley : her brother had given 
me no intimation to the contrary. I inquired at the porter’s 
lodge if Mrs. Huntingdon were at home. No, she was with her 
aunt in — shire, but was expected to return before Christmas. 
She usually spent most of her time at Staningley, only coming 
to Grassdale occasionally, when the management of affairs, or 


402 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


the interest of her tenants and dependents required her pres- 
ence. 

“ Near what town is Staningley situated I asked. The 
requisite information was soon obtained. “ Now then, my man, 
give me the reins, and we’ll return to M — . I must have some 
breakfast at the Rose and Crown, and then away to Staningley 
by the first coach for .” 

“ You’ll not get there to-day, sir.” 

“ No matter, I don’t want to get there to-day ; I want to get 
there to-morrow, and pass the night on the road.” 

“ At an inn, sir 'I You’d better by half stay at our house ; and 
then start fresh to-moiTow, and have the whole day for your 
journey.” 

“ What, and lose twelve hours % not I.” ^ 

“ Perhaps, sir, you’re related to Mrs. Huntingdon said he, 
seeking to indulge his cuiiosity, since his cupidity was not to be 
gratified, 

“ I have not that honor.” 

“ Ah ! well,” returned he with a dubious, sidelong glance at 
my splashed, gray trousers and rough pea-jacket. “ But,” he 
added, encouragingly, “there’s many a fine lady like that ’at 
has kinsfolks poorer nor what you are, sir, I should think.” 

“No doubt, — and there’s many a fine gentleman would 
esteem himself vastly honored to be able to claim kindred with 
the lady you mention.” 

He now cunningly glanced at my face. “ Perhaps, sir, you 
mean to — ” 

I guessed what was coming, and checked the impertinent 
conjecture with — “ Perhaps you’ll be so good as to be quiet a 
moment. I’m busy.” 

“ Busy, sir 

“ Yes, in my mind, and don’t want to have my cogitations 
disturbed.” 

“ Indeed, sir !” 

You will see -that my disappointment had not very greatly 
affected me, or I should not have been able so quietly to bear 
with the fellow’s impertinence. The fact is, I thought it as well 
— nay better, all things considered, that I should not see her to- 
day — that I should have time to compose my mind for the in- 
terview — to prepare it for a heavier disappointment, after the 
intoxicating delight experienced by this sudden removal of my 
former apprehensions; not to mention that, after traveling a 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


403 


night and a day without intermission, and rushing in hot haste 
through six miles of new-fallen snow, I could not possibly be in 
a very presentable condition. 

At M — I had time before the coach started to replenish 
my forces with a hearty breakfast, and to obtain the refreshment 
of my usual morning’s ablutions, and the amelioration of some 
slight change in my toilet — and also to dispatch a short note to 
my mother (excellent son that I was), to assure her that I was 
still in existence and to excuse my non-appearance at the ex- 
pected time. It was a long journey to Staningley for those slow 
traveling days ; but I did not deny myself needful refreshment 
on the road, nor even a night’s rest at a way-side inn ; choosing 
rather to brook a little delay than to present myself worn, wiki , 
and weather-beaten before my mistress and her aunt, who would 
be astonished enough to see me, without that. Next morning, 
therefore, I not only fortified myself with as substantial a break- 
fast as my excited feelings would allow me to swallow, but I 
bestowed a little more than usual time and care upon my toilet ; 
and, furnished with a change of linen from my small carpet-bag, 
well brushed clothes, well polished boots, and neat new gloves, 
I mounted “ the Lightning,” and resumed my journey. I had 
nearly two stages yet before me, but the coach, I was informed, 
passed through the neighborhood of Staningley, and having 
desired to be set down as near the Hall as possible, I had noth- 
ing to do but to sit with folded arms and speculate upon the 
coming hour. 

It was a clear frosty morning. The very fact of sitting ex- 
alted aloft, surveying the snowy landscape and sweet, sunny sky, 
inhaling the pure, bracing air, and crunching away over the 
ciisp, frozen snow, was exhilarating enough in itself; but add to 
this the idea of to what goal I was hastening, and whom I ex- 
pected to meet, and you may have some faint conception of my 
frame of mind at the time — only a faint one though, for my heart 
swelled with unspeakable delight, and my spirits rose almost to 
madness — in spite of my prudent endeavors to bind them down 
to a reasonable platitude by thinking of the undeniable differ- 
ence'^ between Helen’s rank and mine ; of all that she had 
passed through since our parting ; of her long, unbroken silence ; 
and, above all, of her cool, cautious aunt, whose counsels she 
would doubtless be careful not to slight again. These consid- 
erations made my heart flutter with anxiety, and my chest 
heave with impatience to get the crisis over, but they could not 


404 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


dim her image in ray mind, or mar the vivid recollection of 
what had been said and felt between us — or destroy the keen 
anticipation of what was to be — in fact, I could not realize their 
terrors now. Toward the close of the journey, however, a 
couple of my fellow passengers kindly came to my assistance, 
and brought me low enough. 

“ Fine land this,” said one of them, pointing with his umbrel- 
la to the wide fields on the right, conspicuous for their compact 
hedge-rows, deep, well-cut ditches, and fine timber-trees, grow- 
ing sometimes on the borders, sometimes in the midst of the in- 
closure — '•^very fine land, if you saw it in the summer or spring.” 

“ Ay,” responded the other — a gruff elderly man, with a drab 
great coat buttoned up to the chin, and a cotton umbrella be- 
tween his knees. It’s old Maxwell’s, I suppose.” 

“ It was his, sir, but he’s dead now, you’re aware, and has 
left it all to his niece.” 

“ All !” 

“ Every rood of it — and the mansion-house and all — every 
atom of his worldly goods ! — except just a trifie, by way of re- 
membrance to his nephew down in — shire, and an annuity to 
his wife.” 

“It’s strange, sir !” 

“ It is, sir. And she wasn’t his own niece neither ; but he 
had no near relations of his own — none but a nephew he’d 
quarreled with — and he always had a partiality for this one. 
And then his wife advised him to it, they say : she’d brought 
most of the property, and it was her wish that this lady should 
have it.” 

“ Humph ! — She’ll be a fine catch for somebody.” 

“ She will so. She’s a widow, but quite young yet, and un- 
common handsome — a fortune of her own, besides, and only one 
child — and she’s nursing a fine estate for him in * * * * 

There’ll be lots to speak for her ! — ’fraid there’s no chance for 
you — (facetiously jogging me with his elbow, as well as his 
companion — ha, ha, ha ! No offense, sir, I hope ] (to me). 
Ahem ! — I should think she’ll marry none but a nobleman, my- 
self. Look ye, sir,” resumed he, turning to his other neighbor, 
and pointing jmst me with his umbrella, “that’s the hall — grand 
park, you see— and all them woods — plenty of timber there, and 
lots of game — hallo ! what now 

This exclamation was occasioned by the sudden stoppage of 
the coach at the park gates. 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


405 


Gen’leman for Staningley Hall]” cried the coachman; and 
I rose and threw my carpet-bag to the ground, preparatory to 
dropping myself down after it. 

“ Sickly, sir ]” asked my talkative neighbor, staring me in 
the face (I dare say it was white enough). 

“ No. Here, coachman.” 

“ Thank’ee, sir. All right.” 

The coachman pocketed his fee and drove av/ay, leaving me 
not walking up the park, but pacing to and fro before its gates, 
with folded arms and eyes upon the ground — an overwhelming 
force of images, thoughts, impressions crowding on my mind, 
and nothing tangibly distinct but this : — My love had been cher- 
ished in vain ; my hope was gone forever ; 1 must tear myself 
away at once, and banish or suppress all thoughts.of her, like the 
remembrance of a wild, mad dream. Gladly would I have linger- 
ed round the place for hours, in the hope of catching at least one 
distant glimpse of her before I went, but it must not be : I must 
not suffer hei' to see me ; for what could have brought me hither 
but the hope of Reviving her attachment, with a view, hereafter 
to obtain her li^n^ ] And could I bear that she should think 
me capable of such a n^ng ] — of presuming upon the acquaint- 
ance — the love if you will-^accidentally contracted, or rather 
forced upon hor against her will, when she was an unknown 
fugitive, toiling for her own support, apparently without for- 
tune, family, or connections — to come upon her now, when she 
was re-instated in her proper sphere, and claim a share in her 
prosperity, which, had it never failed her, would most certainly 
have kept her unknown to me forever ] and this too, when we 
had parted sixteen months ago, and she had expressly forbidden - 
me to hope for a reunion in this world — and never sent me a 
line or a message from that day to this ] No^l The very idea 
was intolerable. 

And even, if she should have a lingering affection for me still, 
ought I to disturb her peace by awakening those feelingsj. tOt 
subject her to the struggles of conflicting duty and inclination-^ 
to whichsoever side the latter might allure, or the former im- 
peratively call her — whether she should deem it her duty to risk 
the slights and censures of the world, the sorrow and displeasure 
of those she loved, for a romantic idea of truth and constancy to 
me, or to sacrifice her individual wishes to the feelings of her 
friends, and her own sense of prudence and the fitness of things'? 
No — and I would not ! I would go at once, and she should 


406 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


never know that I had approached the place of her abode ; for 
though I might disclaim all idea of ever aspiring to her hand, 
or even of soliciting a place in her friendly regard, her peace 
should not be broken by my presence, nor her heart afflicted 
by the sight of my fidelity. 

“ Adieu then, dear Helen, forever ! — Forever adieu 

So said I — and yet I could not tear myself away. I moved 
a few paces, and then looked back, for one last view of her 
stately home, that I might have its outward form, at least, im- 
pressed upon my mind as indelibly as her own image, which, 
alas ! I must not see again — then, walked a few steps farther ; 
and then lost in melancholy musings, paused again, and leaned 
my back against a rough old tree that grew beside the road. 


CHAPTER LHI. 

CONCLUSION. ♦ 

While standing thus, absorbed in my gloomy reverie, a gentle- 
man’s carriage came round the corner of the road. I did not 
look at it; and had it rolled quietly by me, I should not have 
remembered the fact of its appearance at all ; but a tiny voice 
from within it roused me by exclaiming — 

“ Mamma, mamma, here’s Mr. Markham !” 

I did not hear the reply, but presently the same voice an- 
swered — 

“ It is indeed, mamma — look for yourself.” 

I did not raise my eyes, but I suppose mamma looked, for a 
clear, melodious voice, whose tones thrilled through my nerves, 
exclaimed — 

“ Oh, aunt ! Here’s Mr. Markham — Arthur’s friend ! — Stop. 
Richard !” ^ 

There was such evidence of joyous, though suppressed ex- 
citement in the utterance of those few words — especially that 
tremulous, “ Oh, aunt — ” that it threw me almost off my guard. 
The carriage stopped immediately, and I looked up and met 
the eye of a pale; grave, ^elderly lady surveying me from the 
open window. She bowed, and so did I, and then she with- 
drew her head, while Arth\ir screamed to the footman to let 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


407 


him out; but before that functionary could descend from his 
box, a hand was silently put forth from the carriage window. 
I knew that hand, though a black glove concealed its delicate 
whiteness and half its fair proportions ; and quickly seizing it, I 
pressed it in my own — ardently, for a moment, but recollecting 
myself, I dropped it, and it was immediately withdrawn. 

“ Were you coming to see us, or were you only passing by 
asked the low voice of its owner, who, I felt, was attentively 
surveying my countenance from behind the thick black vail, 
which, with the shadowing panels, entirely concealed her own 
from me. 

“ I — I came to see the place,” faltered I. 

“ The place , repeated she, in a tone which betokened more 
displeasure or disappointment than surprise. 

“ Will you not enter it then T’ 

“ If you wish it.” 

“ Can you doubt 

“ Yes, yes, he must enter,” cried Arthur, running round from 
the other door ; and seizing my hand in both his, he shook it 
heartily. 

“ Do you remember me, sir ]” said he. 

“ Yes, full well, my little man, altered though you are,” re- 
plied I, surveying the comparatively tall, slim young gentle- 
man with his mother’s image visibly stamped upon his fair, in- 
telligent features, in spite of the blue eyes beaming with glad- 
ness, and the bright locks clustering beneath his cap. 

“Am I not grown *?” said he, stretching himself up to his full 
height. 

“ Grown ! three inches, upon my word 

“ I was seven last birth-day,” was the proud rejoinder. “ In 
seven years more, I shall be as tall as you, nearly.” 

“ Arthur,” said his mother, “ tell him to come in. Go on, 
Richard.” 

There was a touch of sadness as well as coldness in her voice, 
but I knew not to what to ascribe it. The carriage drove on, 
and entered the gates before us. My little companion led me 
up the park, discoursing merrily all the way. Arrived at the 
hall door, I paused on the steps, and looked round me, waiting 
to recover my composure, if possible — or -at any rate, to re- 
member my new-formed resolutions,* and the principles on which 
they were founded ; anfl it was not till Arthur had been for 
some time gently pulling my coat, and repeating his invitations to 


408 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


enter, that I at length consented to accompany him into the 
apartment where the ladies awaited us. 

Helen eyed me, as I entered, with a kind of gentle, serious 
scrutiny, and politely asked after Mrs. Markham and Rose. I 
respectfully answered her inquiries. Mrs. Maxwell begged me 
to be seated, observing it was rather cold, but she supposed I 
had not traveled far that moming. 

“ Not quite twenty miles,” I answered. 

“ Not on foot!” 

“ No, madam, by coach.” 

Here’s Rachel, sir,” said Arthur, the only truly happy one 
among us, directing my attention to that worthy individual, who 
had just entered to take her mistress’s things. She vouchsafed 
me an almost friendly smile of recognition — a favor that de- 
manded, at least, a civil salutation on my part, which was ac- 
cordingly given and respectfully returned — she had seen the 
error of her former estimation of my character. 

When Helen was divested of her lugubrious bonnet and vail, 
her heavy winter cloak &c., she looked so like herself that I 
knew not how to bear it. I w^as particularly glad to see her 
beautiful black hair unstinted still and unconcealed in its glossy 
luxuriance. 

“ Mamma has left off her widow’s cap in honor of uncle’s 
marriage,” observed Arthur, reading my looks with a child’s 
mingled simplicity and quicknes of observation. Mamma looked 
grave, and Mrs. Maxwell shook her head. “ And aunt Maxwell 
is never going to leave off hers,” persisted the naughty boy; 
but when he saw that his pertness was seriously displeasing 
and painful to his aunt, he went and silently put his arm round 
her neck, kissed her cheek, and withdrew to the recess of one 
of the great bay windows, where he quietly amused himself with 
his dog, while Mrs. Maxwell gravely discussed with me the 
interesting topics of the weather, the season, and the roads. I 
considered her presence very useful as a check upon my natural 
impulses — an antidote to those emotions of tumultuous excite- 
ment which would otherwise have carried me away against my 
reason and my will ; but just then I felt the restraint almost 
intolerable, and I had the greatest difficuty in forcing myself to 
attend to her remarks, and answer them with ordinary politeness ; 
for I was sensible that Helen was standing within a few feet of 
me, beside the fire. I dared not lool*^ at her, but I felt her eye 
was upon me, and from one hasty, furtive glance, I thought her 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


409 


cheek was slightly flushed, and that her fingers, as she played 
with her watch chain, were agitated with that restless, trembling 
motion which betokens high excitement. 

“ Tell me,” said she, availing herself of the first pause in the 
attempted conversation between her aunt and me, and speaking 
fast and low, with her eyes bent on the gold chain — for I now 
ventured another glance — “ Tell me how you all are at Linden- 
hope ] — has nothing happened since I left you 

“ I believe not.” 

“ Nobody dead 1 nobody married 
» No.” 

“ Or — or expecting to marry 1 — No old ties dissolved or new 
ones formed % no old friends forgotten or supplanted V* 

She dropped her voice so low in the last sentence that no 
one could have caught the concluding words but myself, and at 
the same time turned her eyes upon me with a dawning smile, 
most sweetly melancholy, and a look of timid though keen 
inquiry, that made my cheeks tingle with inexpressible emo- 
tions. 

“ I believe not,” I answered — “ Certainly not, if others are 
as little changed as I.” Her face glowed in sympathy with 
mine. 

“ And you really did not mean to call 1” she exclaimed. 

“ I feared to intrude.” 

“ To intrude !” cried she with an impatient gesture. “ What” 
— but as if suddenly recollecting her aunt’s presence, she 
checked herself, and, turning to that lady, continued — “Why 
aunt, this man is my brother’s close friend, and was my own 
intimate acquaintance (for a few short months, at least), and 
professed a great attachment to my boy — and when he passes 
the house, so many scores of miles from his home, he declines 
to look in, for fear of intruding !” 

“ Mr. Markham is over modest,” observed Mrs. Maxwell. 

“ Over ceremonious, rather,” said her niece — “ over — well, 
it’s no matter.” And turning from me, she seated herself in a 
chair beside the table, and pulling a book to her by the cover, 
began to turn over the leaves in an energetic kind of abstrac- 
tion. 

“ If I had known,” said I, “ that you would have honored 
me by remembering me as an intimate acquaintance, I most 
likely should not have denied myself the pleasure of calling 
upon you, but I thought you had forgotten me long ago.” 


410 . 


THE TENANT OF VVILDFELL HALL. 


“ You judged of others by yourself,” muttered she, without 
raising her eyes from the book, but reddening as she spoke, 
and hastily turning over a dozen leaves at once. 

There was a pause of which Arthur thought he might ven- 
ture to avail himself to introduce his handsome young setter, 
and show me how wonderfully it was grown and improved, and 
to ask after the welfare of its father, Sancho. Mrs. Maxwell 
then withdrew to take off her things. Helen immediately 
pushed the book from her, and after silently surveying her son, 
his friend, and his dog, for a few moments, she dismissed the 
former from the room under pretense of wishing him to fetch 
his last new book to show me. The child obeyed with alacrity ; 
but I continued caressing the dog. The silence might have 
lasted till its master’s return, had it depended on me to break it, 
but, in half a minute or less, my hostess impatiently rose, and 
taking her former station on the rug between me and the chim- 
ney corner, earnestly exclaimed — 

“ Gilbert, what is the matter with you 'I — why are you so 
changed 'I It is a very indiscreet question, I know,” she hast- 
ened to add : perhaps a very rude one — don’t answer it if you 
think so — but I hate mysteries and concealments.” 

“ I am not changed, Helen — unfortunately I am as keen and 
passionate as ever — it is not I, it is circumstances that are 
changed.” 

What circumstances % Do tell me !” Her cheek was 
blanched with the very anguish of anxiety — could it be with 
the fear that I had rashly pledged my faith to another ? 

“ I’ll tell you at once,” said I. “ I will confess that I came 
here for the purpose of seeing you (not without some monitory 
misgivings at my own presumption, and fears that I should be 
as little welcome as expected when I came), but I did not 
know that this estate was yours, until enlightened on the sub- 
ject of your inheritance by the conversation of two fellow-pas- 
sengers in the last stage of my journey ; and then, I saw at 
once the folly of the hopes I had cherished, and the madness of 
retaining them a moment longer ; and though I alighted at 
your gates, I determined not to enter within them ; I lingered 
a few minutes to see the place, but was fully resolved to return 
to M — without seeing its mistress.” 

“ And if my aunt and I had not been just returning from our 
morning drive, I should have seen and heard no more of you V* 
I thought it would be better for both that we should not 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


411 


meet/’ replied I, as calmly as I could, but not daring to speak 
above my breath, from conscious inability to steady my voice, 
and not daring to look in her face lest my firmness should for- 
sake me altogether : “ I thought an interview would only dis- 
turb your peace and madden me. But I am glad, now, of this 
opportunity of seeing you once more, and knowing that you 
have not forgotten me, and of assuring you that I shall never 
cease to remember you.” 

There was a moment’s pause. Mrs. Huntingdon moved 
away, and stood in the recess of the window. Did she regard 
this as an intimation that modesty alone prevented me from 
asking her hand 'i and was she considering how to repulse me 
with the smallest injury to my feelings'? Before I could speak 
to relieve her from such a perplexity, she broke the silence 
herself by suddenly turning toward me and observing — 

“ You might have had such an opportunity before — as far, I 
mean, as regards assuring me of your kindly recollections, and 
yourself of mine, if you had written to me.” 

“ I would have done so, but I did not know your address, 
and did not like to ask your brother, because I thought he 
would object to my writing — but this would not have deterred 
me for a moment, if I could have ventured to believe that you 
expected to hear from me, or even wasted a thought upon 
your unhappy friend ; but your silence naturally led me to con- 
clude myself forgotten.” 

“ Did you expect me to write to you, then 
No, Helen — Mrs. Huntingdon,” said I, blushing at the im- 
plied imputation, “ Certainly not ; but if you had sent me a 
message through your brother, or even asked him about me, 
now and then — ” 

“ I did ask about you, frequently. I was not going to do 
more,” continued she smiling, “ so long as you continued to 
restrict yourself to a few polite inquiries about my health.” 

“ Your brother never told me that you had mentioned my 
name.” 

“ Did you ever ask him 

“ No ; for I saw he did not wish to be questioned about you, 
or to afford the slightest encouragement or assistance to my 
too obstinate attachment.” Helen did not reply. “ And he 
was perfectly right,” added I. But she remained in silence 
looking out upon the snowy lawn. “ Oh, I will relieve her of 
my presence !” thought I ; and immediately I rose and ad- 


412 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


vanced to take leave with a most heroic resolution — ^but 
pride was at the bottom of it, or it could not have carried me 
through. 

Are you going already V* said she, taking the hand I 
offered, and not immediately letting it go. 

“ Why should I stay any longer 
“ Wait till Arthur comes, at least.” 

Only too glad to obey, I stood and leaned against the opposite 
side of the window. 

“ You told me you were not changed,” said my companion: 
“ you are — very much so.” 

“ No, Mrs. Huntingdon, I only ought to be.” 

“ Do you mean to maintain that you have the same regard 
for me that you had when last we met V* 

“ I have, but it would be wrong to talk of it now.” 

“ It was wrong to. talk of it then, Gilbert ; it would not now 
— unless to do so would be to violate the truth.” 

I was too much agitated to speak ; but, without waiting for 
an answer, she turned away her glistening eye and crimson 
cheek, and threw up the window and looked out, whether to 
calm her own excited feelings or to relieve her embarrassment, 
or only to pluck that beautiful, half-blown Christmas rose that 
grew upon the little shrub without, just peeping from the snow, 
that had hitherto, no doubt, defended it from the frost, and was 
now melting away in the sun. Pluck it, however, she did, and 
having gently dashed the glittering powder from its leaves, ap- 
proached it to her lips, and said — 

“ This rose is not so fragrant as a summer flower, but it has 
stood through hardships none of them could bear : the cold rain 
of winter has sufficed to nourish it, and its faint sun to warm it ; 
the bleak winds have not blanched it, or broken its stem, and the 
keen frost has not blighted it. Look, Gilbert, it is still fresh 
and blooming as flower can be, with the cold snow even now 
on its petals. Will you have it 

I held out my hand : I dared not speak, lest my emotion 
should over-master me. She laid the rose across my palm, but 
I scarcely closed my fingers upon it, so deeply was I absorbed 
in thinking what might be the meaning of hei* words, and what 
I ought to do or say upon the occasion ; whether to give way to 
my feelings or restrain them still. Misconstruing this hesitation 
into indifference — or reluctance even — to accept her gift, Helen 
suddenly snatched it from my hand, threw it out on to the snow, 


THE TENANT OP WILDFELL HALL. 


413 


shut down the window with an emphasis, and withdrew to the 
fire. 

“ Helen ! what means this 1” I cried, electrified at the start- 
ling change in her demeanor. 

“ You did not understand my gift,” said she — “ or, what is 
worse, you despised it. I’m sorry I gave it you ; but since I 
did make such a mistake, the only remedy I could think of was 
to take it away.” 

“ You misunderstood me, cruelly,” I replied, and in a minute 
I had opened the window again, leaped out, picked up the 
flower, brought it in, and presented it to her, imploring her to 
give it me again, and I would keep it forever for her sake, 
and prize it more highly than any thing in the world I pos- 
sessed. 

“ And will this content you V’ said she, as she took it in her 
hand. 

“ It shall,” I answered. 

“ There, then ; take it.” 

I pressed it earnestly to my lips, and put it in my bosom, 
Mrs. Huntingdon looking on with a half-sarcastic smile. 

“ Now, are you going 1” said she. 

“ I will if — if I must.” 

“You are changed,” persisted she — “you are grown either 
veiy proud or very indifferent.” 

“ I am neither, Helen — Mrs. Huntingdon. If you could see 
my heart — ” 

“ You must be one — if not both. And why Mrs. Hunting- 
don ? why not Helen, as before ?” 

“ Helen, then — dear Helen !” I murmured. I was in an 
agony of mingled love, hope, delight, uncertainty, and sus- 
pense. 

“ The rose I gave you was an emblem of my heart,” said 
she ; “ would you take it away and leave me here alone V* 

“ Would you give me your hand too, if I asked it V’ 

“ Have I not said enough V* she answered with a most en- 
chanting smile. I snatched her hand, and would have fervently 
kissed it, but suddenly checked myself, and said — 

“ But have you considered the consequences 1” 

“ Hardly, I think, or I should not have offered myself to one 
too proud to take me, or too indifferent to make his affection 
outweigh my worldly goods.” 

Stupid blockhead that I was ! I trembled to clasp her in my 


414 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


arms, but dared not believe in so much joy, and yet restrained 
myself to say — 

“ But if you should repent !” 

“ It would be your fault,” she replied ; “ I never shall, unless 
you bitterly disappoint me. If you have not sufficient con- 
fidence in my affection to believe this, let me alone.” 

“ My darling angel — my own Helen” cried I, now passion- 
ately kissing the hand I still retained, and throwing my left 
arm around her, “ you never shall repent, if it depend on me 
alone. But have you thought of your aunt 1” I trembled for 
the answer, and clasped her closer to my heart in the instinctive 
dread of loosing my new-found treasure. 

“ My aunt must not know of it yet,” said she. “ She would 
think it a rash, wild step, because she could not imagine how well 
I know you ; but she must know you herself, and learn to like 
you. You must leave us now, after lunch, and come again in 
spring, and make a longer stay, and cultivate her acquaintance ; 
and I know you will like each other.” 

“ And then you will be mine,” said I, printing a kiss upon 
her lips, and another, and another — for I was as daring and 
impetuous now as I had been backward and constrained before. 

“ No — in another year,” replied she, gently disengaging her 
self from my embrace, but still fondly clasping my hand. 

“ Another year ! Oh, Helen, I could not wait so long !” 

“ Where is your fidelity ]” 

“ I mean I could not endure the misery of so long a separa- 
tion 

“It would not be a separation: we will write every day; 
my spirit shall be always with you ; and sometimes you shil 
see me with your bodily eye. I will not be such a hypocrite 
as to pretend that I desire to wait so long myself ; but as my 
marriage is to please myself alone, I ought to consult my friends 
about the time of it.” 

“ Your friends will disapprove.” 

“ They will not greatly disapprove, dear Gilbert,” said she, 
earaestly kissing my hand— -“they can not, when they know 
you — or if they could, they would not be true friends ; I should 
not care for their estrangement. Now ai'e you satisfied ]” 
She looked up in my face with a smile of ineffable tenderness. 

“Can I be otherwise, with your love '? And you do love me, 
Helen 1” said I, not doubting the fact, but wishing to hear it 
confirmed by her own acknowledgment. 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


415 


“ If you loved as I do,’’ she earnestly replied, “ you would 
not have so nearly lost me — these scruples of false delicacy 
and pride would never thus have troubled you — you would 
have seen that the greatest worldly distinctions and discrepan- 
cies of rank, birth, and fortune are as dust in the balance com- 
pared with the unity of accordant thoughts and feelings, and 'j 
truly loving, sympathizing hearts and souls.” 

“ But this is too much happiness,” said I, embracing her 
again ; “ I have not deserved it, Helen — I dare not hope for 
such felicity : and the longer I have to wait, the greater will be 
my dread that something will intervene to snatch you from me ; 
and think, a thousand things may happen in a year ! I shall 
be in one long fever of restless terror and impatience all the 
time. And, besides, winter is such a dreary season.” 

“ I thought so, too,” replied she gravely ; “ I would not be 
married in winter — in December, at least,” she added with a 
shudder — for in that month had occurred both the ill-starred 
marriage that had bound her to her former husband and the 
terrible death that released her — “ and therefore, I said another 
year in spring.” 

“ Next spring ]” 

“ No, no ! next autumn, perhaps.” 

“ Summer, then 

Well, the close of summer. There, now ! be satisfied.” 

While she was speaking, Arthur re-entered the room. G-ood 
boy, for keeping out so long. 

“ Mamma, I couldn’t find the book in either of the places you 
told me to look for it” (there was a conscious something in 
mamma’s smile that seemed to say, “ No, dear, I knew you 
could not”), “but Rachel got it for me at last. Look, Mr. 
Markham, a natural histo^, with all kinds of birds and beasts 
in it, and the reading as nice as the pictures !” 

In gi’eat good humor, I sat down to examine the book, and 
drew the little fellow between my knees. Had he come a min- 
ute before, I should have received him less graciously, but now I 
affectionately stroked his curling locks, and even kissed his 
ivory forehead; he was my own Helen’s son, and therefore 
mine; and as such I have ever since regarded him. That 
pretty child is now a fine young man ; he has realized his 
mother’s brightest expectations, and is at present residing in 
Grassdale Manor with his young wife, the merry little Helen 
Hattersley of yore. 


416 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


I had not looked through half the book, before Mrs. Maxwell 
appeared to invite me into the other room to lunch. That 
lady’s cool, distant manners rather chilled me at first ; but I did 
my best to propitiate her, and not entirely without success, 
I think, even in that first short visit ; for when I talked cheer- 
fully to her, she gradually became more kind and cordial, and 
when I departed she bade me a gracious adieu, hoping ere long 
to have the pleasure of seeing me again. 

“But you must not go till you have seen the conseiwatory, 
my aunt’s winter garden,” said Helen, as 1 advanced to take 
leave of her, with as much philosophy and self-command as I 
could summon to my aid. 

I gladly availed myself of such a respite, and followed her 
into a large and beautiful conservatory, plentifully furnished 
with flowers, considering the season : but, of course, I had little 
attention to spare for them. It was not, however, for any ten- 
der colloquy that my companion had brought me there. 

“ My aunt is particularly fond of flowers,” she observed, 
“ and she is fond of Staningley, too ; I brought you here to offer 
a petition in her behalf, that this may be her home as long as 
she lives, and — if it be not our home likewise — that I may 
often see her and be with her; for I fear she will be sorry to 
lose me ; and though she leads a retired and contemplative 
life, she is apt to get low spirited if left too much alone.” 

“ By all means, dearest Helen ! do what you will with your 
own. I should not dream of wishing your aunt to leave the 
place under any circumstances ; and we will live either here or 
elsewhere, as you and she may determine, and you shall see 
her as often as you like. I know she must be pained to part 
with you, and I am willing to make any reparation in my 
power. I love her for your sake, and her happiness shall be as 
dear to me as that of my own mother.” 

“ Thank you, darling ! you shall have a kiss for that. Good- 
by. There now — there Gilbert — let me go — here’s Arthur; 
don’t astonish his infantile brain with your madness.” 

But it is time to bring my narrative to a close — any one but 
you would say I had made it too long already ; but for your 
satisfaction I will add a few words more, because I know you 
will have a fellow-feeling for the old lady, and will wish to 
know the last of her history. I did come again in spring, and, 
agreeably to Helen’s injunctions, did my best to cultivate hei 


THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL. 


417 


acquaintance. She received me veiy kindly, having been, 
doubtless, already prepared to think highly of my character, 
by her niece’s too favorable report. I turned my best side out, 
of course, and we got along marvelously well together. When 
my ambitious intentions were made known to her, she took it 
more sensibly than I had ventured to hope. Her only remark 
on the subject, in my hearing, was — 

“ And so, Mr. Markham, you are going to rob me of my 
niece, I understand. Well ! I hope God will prosper your 
union, and make my dear girl happy at last. Could she have 
been contented to remain single, I own I should have been 
better satisfied ; but if she must marry again, I know of no one, 
now living and of a suitable age, to whom I would more willing- 
ly resign her than yourself, or who would be more likely to 
appreciate her worth and make her truly happy, as far as I can 
tell.” 

Of course I was delighted with the compliment, and hoped 
to show her she was not mistaken in her favorable judgment. 

“ I have, however, one request to offer,” continued she. “ It 
seems I am still to look on Staningley as my home ; I wish you 
to make it yours likewise, for Helen is attached to the place, 
and to me — as I am to her. There are painful associations 
connected with Grassdale, which she can not easily overcome ; 
and I shall not molest you with my company or interference 
here : I am a very quiet person, and shall keep my own apart- 
ments and attend to my own concerns, and only see you now 
and then.” 

“ Of course I most readily consented to this, and we lived in 
the greatest harmony with our dear aunt until the day of her 
death, which melancholy event took place a few years after — 
melancholy, not to herself (for it came quietly upon her, and 
she was glad to reach her journey’s end), but only to the few 
loving friends and grateful dependents she left behind. 

“ To return, however, to my own affairs. I was manded in 
summer, on a glorious August morning. It took the whole eight 
months, and all Helen’s kindness and goodness to boot, to over- 
come my mother’s prejudices against my bride elect, and to 
reconcile her to the idea of my leaving Linden Grange, and 
living so far away. Yet she was gratified at her son’s good 
fortune, after all, and proudly attributed it all to his own supe- 
rior merits and endowments. I bequeathed the farm to Fergus, 
with better hopes of its prosperity than I should have had a 


■4 

418 THE TENANT OP WILDFELL HALL. 

year ago under similar 'circumstances ; for he had lately fallen 
in love with the vicar of L — ’s eldest daughter — a lady, whose 
superiority had roused his latent virtues, and stimulated him to 
the most surprising exertions, not only to gain her affection and 
esteem, and to obtain a fortune sufficient to enable him to aspire 
to her hand, but to render himself worthy of her, in his own 
eyes, as well as in those of her parents ; and in the end he was 
successful, as yoli already know. As for myself, I need not 
tell you how happy my Helen and I have lived and loved to- 
gether, and how blessed w6 still are in each other’s society, and 
in the promising young scions who are growing up about us. 
We are just now looking forward to the advent of you and 
Rose ; for the time of your annual visit draws nigh, when you 
must leave )ur dusty, smoky, noisy, toiling, striving city, for a 
season of Avigorating relaxation and social retirement with us. 

Till then, farewell. 

' 1 - Gilbert Markham. 

Staninglet, June 10th, 1847. 




THE END. 















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